University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


til 


Miss  JEWETT'S  BOOKS. 


The  purity  of  her  sentiment,  the  unstrained  felicity  and  natural- 
ness of  her  style,  the  thorough  likeableness  of  all  the  people  to  whom 
she  introduces  us,  all  conspire  to  render  her  stories  about  as  nearly 
perfect  in  their  way  as  anything  in  this  world  ever  gets  to  be.  — 
Good  Company. 

COUNTRY  BY-WAYS.    "Little    Classic"    style,    red    edges, 


DEEP  HA  VEN.     "  Little  Classic  "  style,  red  edges,  $i  .25. 

It  is  a  common  thing  to  say  about  a  book  that  it  is  charming,  or 
interesting,  or  absorbing,  and  very  often  it  is  said  without  any  par- 
ticular meaning  or  interest.  But  here  is  a  book  which  is  really  all 
three.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

OLD    FRIENDS   AND    NEW.      "Little   Classic"   style,  red 

edges,  $1.25. 

Seven  charming  short  stories.  .  .  .  The  autumn  is  not  likely 
to  bring  anything  more  wholly  delightful  to  lovers  of  the  best  light 
literature.  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

PL  A  Y  DA  YS.     Stories  for  Children.     Square  i6mo,  $1.50. 

If  Santa  Claus  neglects  to  leave  a  copy  of  "  Play  Days  "  in  any 
household  where  there  is  a  little  girl,  he  is  n't  the  kind  of  Santa 
Claus  we  take  him  for.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

***  For  sale  by  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price 
by  the  Publishers, 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


Country  By -Ways 


BY 


SARAH   ORNE   JEWETT 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1881 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT. 


All  rig/its  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge. 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


To 

T.  H.  J., 

MY  DEAR  FATHER  ;   MY  DEAR  FRIEND  J 
THE    BEST    AND    WISEST    MAN    I    EVER    KNEW} 

WHO  TAUGHT  ME  MANY   LESSONS  AND  SHOWED  ME  MANY  THINGS 

AS  WE  WENT  TOGETHER  ALONG  THE 

COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

KIVER  DRIFTWOOD * 

ANDREW'S  FORTUNE 

AN  OCTOBER  RIDE 92 

FROM  A  MOURNFUL  VILLAGER          .        .        •        •  116 

AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY 139 

A  WINTER  DRIVE 163 

GOOD  LUCK  :  A  GIRL'S  STORY 186 

Miss  BECKY'S  PILGRIMAGE 218 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD. 


|T  the  head  of  tide-water  on  the  river  there 
is  a  dam,  and  above  it  is  a  large  mill-pond, 
where  most  of  the  people  who  row  and  sail 
keep  their  boats  all  summer  long.  I  like,  perhaps 
once  a  year,  to  cruise  around  the  shores  of  this  pretty- 
sheet  of  water ;  but  I  am  always  conscious  of  the 
dam  above  it  and  the  dam  below  it,  and  of  being  con- 
fined between  certain  limits.  I  rarely  go  beyond  a 
certain  point  on  the  lower  or  tide  river,  as  people  call 
it,  but  I  always  have  the  feeling  that  I  can  go  to  Eu- 
rope, if  I  like,  or  anywhere  on  the  high  seas  ;  and 
when  I  unfasten  the  boat  there  is  no  dam  or  harbor 
bar,  or  any  barrier  whatever  between  this  and  all  for- 
eign ports.  Far  up  among  the  hills  the  ocean  comes, 
and  its  tide  ebbs  and  flows. 

When  the  tide  goes  out,  the  narrow  reaches  of  the 
river  become  rapids,  where  a  rushing  stream  fights 


2  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

with  the  ledges  and  loose  rocks,  and  where  one  needs 
a  good  deal  of  skill  to  guide  a  boat  down  safely. 
Where  the  river  is  wide,  at  low  tide  one  can  only 
see  the  mud  flats  and  broad  stretches  of  green  marsh 
grass.  But  when  the  tide  is  in  it  is  a  noble  and  dig- 
nified stream.  There  are  no  rapids  and  only  a  slow 
current,  where  the  river  from  among  the  inland 
mountains  flows  along,  finding  its  way  to  the  sea, 
which  has  come  part  way  to  welcome  the  company  of 
springs  and  brooks  that  have  answered  to  its  call.  A 
thousand  men  band  themselves  together,  and  they  are 
one  regiment ;  a  thousand  little  streams  flow  together, 
and  are  one  river;  but  one  fancies  that  they  do  not 
lose  themselves  altogether ;  while  the  individuality  of 
a  river  must  come  mainly  from  the  different  charac- 
ters of  its  tributaries.  The  shape  of  its  shores  and 
the  quality  of  the  soil  it  passes  over  determine  cer- 
tain things  about  it,  but  the  life  of  it  is  something  by 
itself,  as  the  life  of  a  man  is  separate  from  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  he  is  placed.  There  must  be 
the  first  spring  which  overflows  steadily  and  makes  a 
brook,  which  some  second  spring  joins,  and  the  third, 
and  the  fourth ;  and  at  last  there  is  a  great  stream,  in 
which  the  later  brooks  seem  to  make  little  difference. 
I  should  like  to  find  the  very  beginning  and  head- 
water of  my  river.  I  should  be  sorry  if  it  were  a 


RIVER   DRIFTWOOD.  3 

pond,  though  somewhere  in  the  ground  underneath 
there  would  be  a  spring  that  kept  the  secret  and  was 
in  command  and  under  marching  orders  to  the  sea, 
commissioned  to  recruit  as  it  went  along.  Here  at 
the  head  of  tide-water  it  first  meets  the  sea,  and  then 
when  the  tide  is  in  there  is  the  presence  of  royalty, 
or  at  least  its  deputies.  The  river  is  a  grand  thing 
when  it  is  river  and  sea  together ;  but  how  one 
misses  the  ocean  when  the  tide  is  out,  for  in  the 
great  place  it  filled  the  stream  from  the  hills,  after 
all,  looks  of  little  consequence. 

The  river  is  no  longer  the  public  highway  it  used 
to  be  years  ago,  when  the  few  roads  were  rough,  and 
railroads  were  not  even  dreamed  of.  The  earliest 
chapter  of  its  history  that  I  know  is  that  it  was  full 
of  salmon  and  other  fish,  and  was  a  famous  fishing- 
ground  with  the  Indians,  who  were  masters  of  its 
neighboring  country.  To  tell  its  whole  story  one 
would  have  to  follow  the  fashion  of  the  old  Spanish 
writers  whom  Garcilasso  de  la  Vega  says  he  will  not 
imitate,  in  the  first  chapter  of  his  Commentaries  of 
the  Yncas,  —  that  delightful  composition  of  uncon- 
scious pathos  and  majestic  lies.  When  his  predeces- 
sors in  the  field  of  literature  wished  to  write  on  any 
subject  whatever,  he  solemnly  tells  us,  they  always 
began  with  a  history  of  the  globe.  One  cannot  help 


4  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

wishing  that  he  had  not  disdained  to  follow  their  ex- 
ample, and  had  given  his  theories,  which  would  have 
been  wildly  ahead  of  even  the  fancies  of  his  time,  in 
general,  and  full  of  most  amusing  little  departures 
from  the  truth  when  he  came  down  to  details.  But 
the  earliest  history  of  the  river  can  well  be  ignored  ; 
it  is  but  seldom,  as  yet,  that  people  really  care  much 
for  anything  for  its  own  sake,  until  it  is  proved  to 
have  some  connection  with  human-kind.  We  are 
slow  to  take  an  interest  in  the  personality  of  our 
neighbors  who  are  not  men,  or  dogs,  or  horses,  or  at 
least  some  creature  who  can  be  made  to  understand  a 
little  of  our  own  spoken  language.  Who  is  going  to 
be  the  linguist  who  learns  the  first  word  of  an  old 
crow's  warning  to  his  mate,  or  how  a  little  dog  ex- 
presses himself  when  he  asks  a  big  one  to  come  and 
rout  his  troublesome  enemy  ?  How  much  we  shall 
know  when  the  pimpernel  teaches  us  how  she  makes 
her  prophecies  of  the  weather,  and  how  long  we  shall 
have  to  go  to  school  when  people  are  expected  to 
talk  to  the  trees,  and  birds,  and  beasts,  in  their  own 
language !  What  tune  could  it  have  been  that  Or- 
pheus and  Amphion  played,  to  which  the  beasts  list- 
ened, and  even  the  trees  and  stones  followed  them 
to  hear  ?  Is  it  science  that  will  give  us  back  the 
gift,  or  shall  we  owe  it  to  the  successors  of  those 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  5 

friendly  old  saints  who  talked  with  the  birds  and 
fishes  ?  We  could  have  schools  for  them,  if  we  once 
could  understand  them,  and  could  educate  them  into 
being  more  useful  to  us.  There  would  be  intelligent 
sword-fish  for  submarine  divers,  and  we  could  send 
swallows  to  carry  messages,  and  all  the  creatures  that 
know  how  to  burrow  in  the  earth  would  bring  us  the 
treasures  out  of  it.  I  should  have  a  larger  calling  ac- 
quaintance than  ever  out-of-doors,  and  my  neighbors 
down  river  would*  present  me  to  congenial  friends 
whom  as  yet  I  have  not  discovered.  The  gods  are 
always  drawing  like  toward  like,  and  making  them 
acquainted,  if  Homer  may  be  believed,  but  we  are 
apt  to  forget  that  this  is  true  of  any  creatures  but 
ourselves.  It  is  not  necessary  to  tame  them  before 
they  can  be  familiar  and  responsive  ;  we  can  meet 
them  on  their  own  ground,  and  be  surprised  to  find 
how  much  we  may  have  in  common.  Taming  is  only 
forcing  them  to  learn  some  of  our  customs ;  we 
should  be  wise  if  we  let  them  tame  us  to  make  use  of 
some  of  theirs.  They  share  other  instincts  and  emo- 
tions with  us  beside  surprise,  or  suspicion,  or  fear. 
They  are  curiously  thoughtful ;  they  act  no  more 
from  unconscious  instinct  than  we  do  ;  at  least,  they 
are  called  upon  to  decide  as  many  questions  of  action 
or  direction,  and  there  are  many  emergencies  of  life 


6  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

when  we  are  far  more  helpless  and  foolish  than  they. 
It  is  easy  to  say  that  other  orders  of  living  creatures 
exist  011  a  much  lower  plane  than  ourselves  ;  we 
know  very  little  about  it,  after  all.  They  are  often 
gifted  in  some  way  that  we  are  not ;  they  may  even 
carry  some  virtue  of  ours  to  a  greater  height  than  we 
do.  Hut  the  day  will  come  for  a  more  truly  univer- 
sal suffrage  than  we  dream  of  now,  when  the  mean- 
ing of  every  living  thing  is  understood,  and  it  is  given 
its  rights  and  accorded  its  true  vaftie :  for  its  life  is 
from  God's  life,  and  its  limits  were  fixed  by  him ;  its 
material  shape  is  the  manifestation  of  a  thought,  and 
to  each  body  there  is  given  a  spirit. 

The  great  gulls  watch  me  float  along  the  river,  cu- 
riously, and  sail  in  the  air  overhead.  Who  knows 
what  they  say  of  me  when  they  talk  together ;  and 
what  are  they  thinking  about  when  they  fly  quickly 
out  of  sight  ?  Perhaps  they  know  something  about 
me  that  I  do  not  know  of  myself  yet ;  and  so  may  the 
musk-rat,  as  he  hurries  through  the  water  with  a  lit- 
tle green  branch  in  his  mouth  which  will  make  a 
salad  for  his  supper.  He  watches  me  with  his  sharp 
eyes,  and  whisks  into  his  hole  in  the  sunny  side  of 
the  island.  I  have  a  respect  for  him ;  he  is  a  busy 
creature,  and  he  lives  well.  You  might  be  hospitable 
and  ask  me  to  supper,  musk-rat!  I  don't  know 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  7 

whether  I  should  care  much  for  you  if  I  were  an- 
other musk-rat,  or  you  were  a  human  being,  but  I 
shall  know  you  again  when  I  see  you  by  an  odd  mark 
in  the  fur  on  the  top  of  your  head,  and  that  is  some- 
thing. I  suppose  the  captive  mussels  in  your  den 
are  quaking  now  at  hearing  you  come  in.  I  have 
lost  sight  of  you,  but  I  shall  remember  where  your 
house  is.  I  do  not  think  people  are  thankful  enough 
who  live  out  of  the  reach  of  beasts  that  would  eat 
them.  When  one  thinks  of  whole  races  of  small 
creatures  like  the  mussels  which  are  the  natural  and 
proper  food  of  others,  it  seems  an  awful  fact  and  ne- 
cessity of  nature  ;  perhaps,  however,  no  more  awful 
than  our  natural  death  appears  to  us.  But  there  is 
something  distressing  about  being  eaten,  and  having 
one's  substance  minister  to  a  superior  existence !  It 
hurts  one's  pride.  A  death  that  preserves  and  ele- 
vates our  identity  is  much  more  consoling  and  satis- 
factory ;  but  what  can  reconcile  a  bird  to  its  future 
as  part  of  the  tissues  of  a  cat,  going  stealthily  afoot, 
and  by  nature  treacherous  ?  Who  can  say,  however, 
that  our  death  may  not  be  simply  a  link  in  the  chain  ? 
One  thing  is  made  the  prey  of  another.  In  some  way 
our  present  state  ministers  to  the  higher  condition  to 
which  we  are  coming.  The  grass  is  made  somehow 
from  the  ground,  and  presently  that  is  turned  into 


8  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

beef,  and  that  goes  to  make  part  of  a  human  being. 
We  are  not  certain  what  an  angel  may  be ;  but  the 
life  in  us  now  will  be  necessary  to  the  making  of  one 
by  and  by. 

There  is  a  wise  arrangement  in  this  merging  and 
combining.  It  makes  more  room  in  the  world.  We 
must  eat  our  fellows  and  be  eaten  to  keep  things 
within  a  proper  limit.  If  all  the  orders  of  life  were 
self-existing,  and  if  all  the  springs  that  make  up  the 
river  flowed  down  to  the  sea  separately  and  inde- 
pendently, there  would  be  an  awful  confusion  and 
chaos  still ;  but  this  leads  one  to  think  of  the  trans- 
migration of  souls  and  other  puzzling  subjects  I  I 
shall  have  to  end  with  an  ignorant  discourse  about 
the  globe  instead  of  having  begun  with  it.  My  river, 
as  I  said  at  first,  leads  to  the  sea,  and  from  any  port 
one  can  push  off  toward  another  sea  of  boundless 
speculation  and  curious  wonderings  about  this  world, 
familiar,  and  yet  so  great  a  mystery. 

There  are  a  thousand  things  to  remember  and  to 
say  about  the  river,  which  seems  to  be  of  little  use  in 
the  half  dozen  miles  I  know  best,  after  it  has  made 
itself  of  great  consequence  by  serving  to  carry  per- 
haps a  dozen  or  twenty  mills,  of  one  kind  and  an- 
other. Between  its  dams  it  has  a  civilized  and  sub- 
jected look,  but  below  the  last  falls,  at  the  Landing,  it 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  9 

apparently  feels  itself  to  be  its  own  master,  and  serves 
in  no  public  capacity  except  to  carry  a  boat  now  and 
then,  and  give  the  chance  for  building  some  weirs,  as 
it  offers  some  good  fishing  when  the  alewives  and 
bass  come  up,  with  bony  and  muddy  shad,  that  are 
about  as  good  to  eat  as  a  rain-soaked  paper  of  pins. 
I  think  its  chief  use  is  its  beauty,  arid  that  has  never 
been  as  widely  appreciated  as  it  ought  to  be.  It  is 
the  eastern  branch  of  the  Piscataqua,  which  separates 
the  States  of  Maine  and  New  Hampshire ;  and  I,  be- 
ing a  lawless  borderer,  beg  you  to  follow  for  a  raid 
on  the  shores,  not  for  pillaging  the  farms  and  cattle- 
lifting,  but  to  see  the  trees  and  their  shadows  in  the 
water :  the  high,  steep  banks  where  the  great  pines 
of  Maine  thrive,  on  one  hand,  and  the  gently  sloping 
Southern  New  Hampshire  fields  fringed  with  willows 
and  oaks  on  the  other.  When  you  catch  sight  of  a 
tall  lateen  sail  and  a  strange,  ,clumsy  craft  that  looks 
heavy  and  low  in  the  water,  you  will  like  to  know 
that  its  ancestor  was  copied  from  a  Nile  boat,  from 
which  a  sensible  old  sea-captain  took  a  lesson  in 
ship-building  many  years  ago.  The  sail  is  capitally 
fitted  to  catch  the  uncertain  wind,  which  is  apt  to 
come  in  flaws  and  gusts  between  the  high,  irregular 
banks  of  the  river  ;  and  the  boat  is  called  a  gunda- 
low,  but  sometimes  spelled  gondola.  One  sees  them 


10  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

often  on  the  Merrimac  and  on  the  Piscataqua  and  its 
branches,  and  the  sight  of  them  brings  a  curiously 
foreign  element  into  the  New  England  scenery ;  for  I 
never  see  the  great  peaked  sail  coming  round  a  point 
without  a  quick  association  with  the  East,  with  the 
Mediterranean  ports  or  the  Nile  itself,  with  its  ruins 
and  its  desert  and  the  bright  blue  sky  overhead ;  with 
mummies  and  scarabei  and  the  shepherd  kings  ;  with 
the  pyramids  and  Sphinx  —  that  strange  group,  so 
old  one  shudders  at  the  thought  of  it  —  standing  clear 
against  the  horizon. 

A  hundred  years  ago  the  northern  country  was 
covered  for  the  most  part  with  heavy  timber,  and 
the  chief  business  at  Berwick  was  receiving  this  from 
the  lumbermen,  and  sending  it  to  Portsmouth  to  be 
reshipped,  or  direct  to  the  West  Indies,  to  be  bar- 
tered for  rum  and  tobacco  and  molasses,  which  might 
be  either  brought  home  at  once,  or  sent  to  Russia,  to 
be  exchanged  again  for  iron  and  sail-cloth  and  cord- 
age. Not  forty  years  ago  there  were  still  twenty 
gundalows  sailing  from  the  Lauding  wharves,  while 
now  there  are  but  two,  and  long  after  that  the  packet 
boat  went  regularly  every  other  day  to  Portsmouth. 
Until  the  days  of  the  railroads  most  of  the  freight 
came  by  water,  and  the  packet  skippers  were  impor- 
tant men.  I  have  always  wished  to  know  something 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  11 

more  of  the  history  of  the  quaint  little  packet  store- 
house which,  until  within  a  year  or  two,  stood  in  the 
mill-yard,  just  below  the  falls.  It  was  built  of  heavy 
timbers,  as  if  it  might  some  day  be  called  upon  to  re- 
sist a  battering-ram.  The  stories  were  very  low,  and 
the  upper  one  projected  over  the  water  with  a  beam, 
to  which  was  fastened  a  tackle  and  fall  to  hoist  and 
lower  the  goods.  It  was  a  little  building,  but  there 
was  a  great  air  of  consequence  about  it.  It  was 
painted  a  dark  red,  which  the  weather  had  dulled  a 
good  deal,  and  it  leaned  to  one  side.  Nobody  knew 
how  old  it  was  ;  it  was  like  a  little  old  woman  who  be- 
longed to  a  good  family,  now  dead,  save  herself  ;  and 
who  could  remember  a  great  many  valuable  people 
and  events  which  everybody  else  had  forgotten.  It 
was  the  last  of  the  warehouses  that  used  to  stand  on 
the  river-banks,  and  I  was  sorry  when  it  was  pulled 
down.  The  old  wharves  have  almost  disappeared, 
too,  though  their  timbers  can  still  be  seen  here  and 
there. 

It  sometimes  takes  me  a  whole  afternoon  to  go 
two  miles  down  the  river.  There  are  many  reasons 
why  I  should  stop  every  now  and  then  under  one 
bank  or  another;  to  look  up  through  the  trees  at  the 
sky,  or  at  their  pictures  in  the  water ;  or  to  let  the 
boat  lie  still,  until  one  can  watch  the  little  fish  come 


12  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

back  to  their  playground  on  the  yellow  sand  and 
gravel ;  or  to  see  the  frogs,  that  splashed  into  the 
water  at  my  approach,  poke  their  heads  out  a  little 
way  to  croak  indignantly,  or  raise  a  loud  note  such 
as  Scotch  bagpipers  drive  out  of  the  pipes  before  they 
start  a  tune.  The  swallows  dart  like  bats  along  the 
surface  of  the  water  after  insects,  and  I  see  a  drowned 
white  butterfly  float  by,  and  reach  out  for  it ;  it  looks 
so  frail  and  little  in  the  river.  When  the  cardinal 
flowers  are  in  bloom  I  go  from  place  to  place  until  I 
have  gathered  a  deckload ;  and  as  I  push  off  the  boat 
it  leaves  the  grass  bent  down,  and  the  water-mint 
that  was  crushed  sends  a  delicious  fragrance  after 
me,  and  I  catch  at  a  piece  and  put  a  leaf  in  my  mouth, 
and  row  away  lazily  to  get  a  branch  of  oak  or  maple 
leaves  to  keep  the  sun  off  my  flowers.  Cardinals  are 
quick  to  wilt,  and  hang  their  proud  heads  wearily. 
They  keep  royal  state  in  the  shade,  and  one  imagines 
that  the  other  flowers  and  all  the  weeds  at  the  water's 
edge  take  care  to  bow  to  them  as  often  as  the  wind 
comes  by,  and  pay  them  honor.  They  are  like  fine 
court  ladies  in  their  best  gowns,  standing  on  the 
shore.  Perhaps  they  are  sending  messages  down  the 
river  and  across  the  seas,  or  waiting  to  hear  some 
news.  They  make  one  think  of  Whittier's  high- 
born Amy  Wentworth  and  her  sailor  lover,  for  they 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  13 

seem  like  flowers  from  a  palace  garden  that  are  away 
from  home  masquerading  and  waiving  ceremony,  and 
taking  the  country  air.  They  wear  a  color  that  is  the 
sign  of  high  ecclesiastical  rank,  and  the  temper  of 
their  minds  would  make  them  furies  if  they  fought 
for  church  and  state.  They  are  no  radicals  ;  they 
are  tories  and  aristocrats  ;  they  belong  to  the  old 
nobility  among  flowers.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  the 
rank  marsh  grass  overran  them,  or  if  the  pickerel 
weed  should  wade  ashore  to  invade  them  and  humble 
their  pride.  They  are  flowers  that  after  all  one 
should  not  try  to  put  into  vases  together.  They 
have,  like  many  other  flowers,  too  marked  an  indi- 
viduality, and  there  is  more  pleasure  to  be  taken 
from  one  tall  and  slender  spire  of  blossoms  by  itself, 
just  as  it  is  pleasanter  to  be  alone  with  a  person  one 
admires  and  enjoys.  To  crowd  some  flowers  together 
you  lose  all  delight  in  their  shape  and  beauty  ;  you 
only  have  the  pleasure  of  the  mass  of  color  or  of 
their  perfume ;  and  there  are  enough  bright  flowers 
and  fragrant  flowers  that  are  only  beautiful  in  masses. 
To  look  at  some  flowers  huddled  together  and  losing 
all  their  grace  and  charm  is  like  trying  to  find  com- 
panionship and  sympathy  by  looking  for  a  minute  at 
a  crowd  of  people.  But  there  is  a  low  trait  of  ac- 
quisitiveness in  human  nature.  I  pick  cardinal  flow- 


14  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

ers  by  the  armful,  and  nothing  less  than  a  blue-and- 
wliite  ginger  pot  full  of  daisies  is  much  satisfaction. 

But  to  most  people  one  tree,  or  flower,  or  river  is 
as  good  as  another,  and  trees  and  flowers  and  rivers 
are  to  be  found  without  trouble,  while  there  are  some 
who  would  never  know  who  has  lived  beside  my 
river  unless  it  were  told  here.  That  says  at  once 
that  their  fame  at  best  is  provincial,  except  for  pep- 
pery little  Captain  John  Paul  Jones,  who  gathered 
the  ship's  company  of  the  Ranger  from  these  neigh- 
boring farms.  Old  people,  who  died  not  many  years 
ago,  remembered  him  as  he  walked  on  the  wharves 
at  Portsmouth,  with  his  sword  point  scratching  the 
ground  ;  a  little  wasp  of  a  fellow,  with  a  temper  like 
a  blaze  of  the  gunpowder  whose  smoke  he  loved. 
One  can  imagine  him  scrambling  up  the  shore  here 
to  one  of  the  old  farm-houses,  as  short  as  a  boy ;  but 
as  tall  as  a  grenadier,  in  his  pride  and  dignity  ;  and 
marching  into  the  best  room,  in  all  the  vainglory  and 
persuasiveness  of  his  uniform,  to  make  sure  of  a  good 
fellow  whose  looks  he  liked,  and  whom  he  promised 
to  send  home  a  gallant  hero,  with  his  sea-chest  full 
of  prize-money.  And  afterward  he  would  land  again 
at  one  of  the  stately  old  colonial  mansions  that  used 
to  stand  beside  the  river,  at  the  Wallingford  house 
by  Madam's  Cove,  or  at  the  Hamilton  house,  and  be 
received  with  befitting  ceremony. 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  15 

There  were  many  fine  houses  in  this  region  in  old 
times,  but  only  one  still  lingers,  —  this  same  Hamil- 
ton house,  —  which  seems  to  me  unrivaled  for  the 
beauty  of  its  situation,  and  for  a  certain  grand  air 
which  I  have  found  it  hard  to  match  in  any  house 
I  have  ever  seen.  It  is  square  and  gray,  with  four 
great  chimneys,  and  many  dormer  windows  in  its 
high-peaked  roof ;  it  stands  on  a  point  below  which 
the  river  is  at  its  widest.  The  rows  of  poplars  and 
its  terraced  garden  have  fallen  and  been  spoiled  by 
time,  but  a  company  of  great  elms  stand  guard  over 
it,  and  the  sunset  reddens  its  windows,  and  the  days 
of  the  past  seem  to  have  come  back,  when  one  is  near 
it,  its  whole  aspect  is  so  remote  from  the  spirit  of 
the  present.  Inside  there  are  great  halls  and  square 
rooms  with  carved  wood-work,  arched  windows  and 
mahogany  window-seats,  and  fire-places  that  are  wide 
enough  almost  for  a  seat  in  the  chimney-corner.  In 
the  country  about  I  have  heard  many  a  tradition  of 
the  way  this  house  was  kept ;  of  the  fine  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  and  the  great  dinner-parties,  and  the 
guests  who  used  to  come  up  the  river  from  Ports- 
mouth, and  go  home  late  in  the  moonlight  evening 
at  the  turn  of  the  tide.  In  those  days  the  wharves 
that  are  fast  being  washed  away  were  strong  enough, 
and  there  were  warehouses  and  storehouses  and  piles 


16  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

of  timber  all  along  the  river.  The  builder  of  the 
house  was  a  successful  man,  who  made  a  great  fort- 
une in  the  lucky  West  India  trade  of  his  time  ;  he 
was  poor  to  begin  with,  but  everything  prospered 
steadily  with  his  business  interests,  and  one  owes 
him  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  leaving  so  fine  a  house  to 
delight  our  eyes. 

A  little  way  up  the  shore  there  was.  formerly  a 
ship-yard,  and  I  know  of  four  ships  that  were  built 
there  much  less  than  fifty  years  ago.  My  grandfather 
was  part  owner  of  them,  and  their  names,  with  those 
of  other  ships,  have  been  familiar  to  me  from  my 
babyhood.  It  is  amusing  that  the  ships  of  a  family 
concerned  in  navigation  seem  to  belong  to  it  and  to 
be  part  of  it,  as  if  they  were  children  who  had  grown 
up  and  gone  wandering  about  the  world.  Long  after 
some  familiar  craft  has  changed  owners  even,  its  fort- 
unes are  affectionately  watched,  arid  to  know  that  a 
ship  has  been  spoken  at  sea  gives  a  good  deal  of 
pleasure  beside  the  assurance  that  the  cargo  is  so 
far  on  its  way  to  market  at  Canton  or  Bombay.  I 
remember  wondering  why  the  smooth  green  bank, 
where  the  dandelions  were  so  thick  in  spring,  should 
be  called  the  ship-yard  by  my  family,  and  even  why 
any  one  should  call  that  corner  of  the  town  the 
Lower  Landing,  since  nothing  ever  seemed  to  land, 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  17 

unless  it  were  the  fleets  that  children  built  from  chips 
and  shingles.  It  is  a  lovely,  quiet  place,  and  I  often 
think  of  an  early  summer  morning  when  T  was  go- 
ing down  river  in  a  row-boat.  The  dandelions  were 
sprinkled  all  over  the  short  green  grass,  and  high  on 
the  shore,  under  a  great  elm,  were  two  wandering 
young  musicians.  They  had  evidently  taken  the 
wrong  road,  and  discovered  that  this  was  a  long  lane 
that  led  only  to  the  great  house  on  the  point  and  to 
the  water's  edge.  They  must  have  been  entertained, 
for  they  seemed  very  cheerful ;  one  played  a  violin, 
and  the  other  danced.  It  was  like  a  glimpse  of  sun- 
shiny, idle  Italy  :  the  sparkling  river  and  the  blue 
sky,  the  wide  green  shores  and  the  trees,  and  the 
great  gray  house,  with  its  two  hall  doors  standing 
wide  open,  the  lilacs  in  bloom,  and  no  noise  or 
hurry,  —  a  quiet  place,  that  the  destroying  left  hand 
of  progress  had  failed  to  touch. 

One  day  I  was  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms  of  the 
Hamilton  house  in  a  dormer  window,  and  I  was 
amused  at  reading  the  nonsense  some  young  girl  had 
written  on  the  wall.  The  view  was  beautiful,  and  I 
thought  she  must  have  sat  there  with  her  work,  or 
have  watched  the  road  or  the  river  for  some  one 
whom  she  wished  to  see  coming.  There  were  senti- 
mental verses,  written  at  different  times.  She  seemed 
2 


18  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

to  have  made  a  sort  of  scrap-book  of  the  bit  of  wall, 
and  she  had  left  me  the  date,  which  was  very  kind 
of  her  ;  so  I  knew  that  it  was  1802,  and  in  the  sum- 
mer, that  she  used  to  sit  there  in  her  favorite  perch. 
This  is  one  of  her  verses  that  I  remember :  — 

"May  you  be  blest  with  all  that  Heaven  may  send, 
Long  life,  good  health,  much  pleasure  in  a  friend; 
May  3rou  in  every  clime  most  happy  be, 
And  when  far  distant  often  think  of  me." 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  catch  this  glimpse  of  girl- 
hood in  the  old  house.  I  wondered  how  she  liked  life 
as  she  grew  older,  and  if  the  lover  —  if  that  were  a 
lover  —  did  think  often  enough  of  her,  and  come  back 
to  her  at  last  from  the  distant  climes.  She  could  have 
wished  him  nothing  better  than  much  pleasure  in  a 
friend.  I  do  not  know  the  history  of  many  members 
of  the  family;  Colonel  Hamilton  and  his  consort  are 
buried  under  a  heavy  monument  in  the  Old  Fields 
burying-ground,  and  at  the  end  of  the  long  epitaph  is 
the  solemn  announcement  that  Hamilton  is  no  more. 
It  would  be  a  strange  sight  if  one  of  his  heavily-laden 
little  ships  came  up  the  river  now ;  but  I  like  to  think 
about  those  days,  and  how  there  might  have  happened 
to  be  some  lumbermen  from  far  inland,  who  were  de- 
lighted to  gossip  with  the  sailors  and  carry  back  up 
into  the  country  the  stories  of  their  voyage.  When 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  19 

the  French  prisoners  of  war  came  into  Portsmouth,  I 
have  heard  old  people  say  that  there  was  a  great  ex- 
citement, and  as  the  ships  came  in  they  looked  like 
gardens,  for  the  Frenchmen  had  lettuces  for  salads, 
and  flowers  growing  in  boxes  that  were  fastened  on 
the  decks ;  and  it  was  amusing  to  hear  of  these  pris- 
oners being  let  out  on  parole  about  the  country  towns, 
in  Eliot  and  Newington  and  Kittery,  and  all  up  and 
down  the  river.  Perhaps  more  than  one  of  them 
found  their  way  to  the  hospitable  families  in  Berwick 
and  were  entertained  as  became  their  rank  and  fort- 
unes. In  an  old  house  in  Eliot  there  is  a  little  draw- 
ing made  by  one  of  these  men,  and  I  have  an  exquis- 
ite little  water-color  painting  of  a  carnation,  with  the 
quaintly  written  request  that  charming  Sally  will 
sometimes  think  of  the  poor  Ribere,  who  will  never 
forget  her.  It  is  all  that  is  left  of  what  must  have 
been  a  tender  friendship  between  this  gallant  young 
Frenchman  and  my  grandmother.  I  found  it  once 
among  her  copy-books,  and  letters  from  her  girl 
friends,  and  love-letters  from  my  grandfather  which 
he  sent  home  to  her  from  sea.  She  was  very  young 
when  the  poor  Ribere  was  so  sorry  to  part  from  her, 
for  she  married  at  eighteen  (and  died  at  twenty-five). 
I  knew  very  little  about  her  until  I  found  in  the  gar- 
ret the  little  brass-nailed  trunk  that  had  kept  her  se- 


20  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

crets  for  me.  I  am  sure  she  often  made  one  of  the 
company  that  used  to  come  up  the  river  to  take  tea 
and  go  home  by  moonlight.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl, 
and  everybody  was  fond  of  her.  The  poor  Ribere 
sat  beside  her  in  the  boat,  I  have  no  doubt ;  and  per- 
haps it  was  in  the  terraced  garden  with  the  rows  of 
poplars  round  it,  that  she  picked  the  flower  he  painted, 
and  no  doubt  he  carried  it  away  with  him  when  he 
was  set  free  again,  and  was  not  a  prisoner  of  war  any 
longer. 

There  was  formerly  a  bright  array  of  clerical  talent 
in  the  river  towns,  and  it  was  most  amusing  to  listen 
to  the  anecdotes  which  the  old  people  of  the  last 
generation  delighted  to  tell  of  the  ministers.  Not  to 
speak  of  the  well-known  Portsmouth  divines,  and  of 
Dr.  Stevens,  of  Kittery  Point,  there  was  the  Rever- 
end Mr.  Litchfield,  of  Kittery,  who  was  called  the 
fisher  parson,  and  his  neighbor,  Parson  Chandler,  who 
might  have  been  called  the  farmer  parson,  for  he  was 
a  celebrated  tiller  of  the  soil,  and  his  example  was  a 
great  blessing  to  the  members  of  his  Eliot  parish. 
The  fields  there  slope  to  the  south  and  west,  and  the 
grass  grows  green  sooner  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
region,  and  the  fruits  of  the  earth  grow  and  ripen 
quickly.  He  taught  his  neighbors  to  improve  upon 
the  old  fashions  of  agriculture.  An  old  friend  of 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  21 

mine  told  me  that  once  he  was  driving  from  Ports- 
mouth to  Berwick,  in  his  early  manhood,  with  Daniel 
Webster  for  company,  and  when  they  passed  this 
clergyman's  house  Mr.  Webster  said  that  he  should 
be  perfectly  satisfied  if  he  could  be  as  great  a  man  as 
Parson  Chandler  ;  and  judging  from  the  stories  of 
his  wisdom  and  eloquence,  the  young  lawyer's  was 
no  mean  ambition.  Mr.  Litchfield  spent  much  of 
his  time  on  week  days  in  the  apostolic  business  of 
catching  fish  ;  and  he  was  a  man  of  rare  wit  and 
drollery,  with  a  sailor-like  serenity  and  confidence 
in  everything's  coming  out  right  at  last,  and  a  true 
mariner's  readiness  and  inteutness  when  there  was 
work  to  be  done.  Once,  at  a  conference  in  Ports- 
mouth, the  preacher  failed  to  come,  arid  some  one  had 
to  furnish  a  sermon  in  his  place.  It  fell  to  Mr.  Litch- 
field's  share  ;  and  old  Dr.  Buckminster  said,  when  the 
discourse  was  ended,  —  it  being  extemporaneous  and 
very  eloquent,  —  "  My  friends,  the  fisher  parson  beats 
us  all ! "  It  is  interesting  to  find  that  many  of  the 
clergymen  of  that  day  seem  to  have  been  uncommonly 
practical  men.  One  fancies  that  they  all  preached 
the  better  because  much  of  their  time  was  spent  in  a 
way  that  brought  them  in  close  contact  with  people's 
every-day  lives.  It  was  no  ideal  human  nature,  stud- 
ied from  sermons  and  theological  works,  and  classi- 


22  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

fied  and  doomed  at  the  recommendation  of  the  old  di- 
vines. One  can  believe  that  it  was  not  abstract  gen- 
eralities of  a  state  of  sinfulness  so  much  as  particu- 
lar weakness  and  shortcomings  that  they  condemned 
from  their  pulpits.  Parson  Litchfield  could  preach 
gallantly  at  some  offender  who  stole  from  and  lied 
about  his  lobster-pots  when  he  took  his  text  from 
Ananias  and  Sapphira,  and  Parson  Chandler  could 
be  most  impressive  and  ready  with  illustration  when 
he  chose  the  parable  of  the  sower  for  the  subject  of 
his  discourse.  In  Berwick  there  was  a  grave  and 
solemn  little  man,  whom  all  his  great  parish  long  re- 
membered admiringly.  The  church  where  the  whole 
town  centred  was  at  the  Old  Fields,  and  it  ought  to 
be  standing  yet,  but  I  do  not  know  that  anything  is 
left  of  it  but  a  bit  of  paper  I  found  one  day,  on 
which  is  written  the  names  of  the  men  who  built  it 
and  the  sums  of  money  and  bundles  of  shingles  or 
pieces  of  timber  that  each  contributed. 

I  do  not  know  why  this  should  have  been  so  super- 
stitious a  neighborhood,  but  there  seems  to  have  been 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  from  ghosts,  and  it  was  the 
duty  of  the  ministers  to  drive  them  away,  or  to  "  lay  " 
them,  as  they  called  it  then.  An  old  man  told  me 
once  that  the  parsons  made  a  great  secret  of  it.  They 
met  together  in  a  room,  which  nobody  was  allowed  to 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  23 

enter ;  so  whether  it  was  a  service  with  mysterious 
rites,  or  they  only  joked  together,  and  thought  it 
well  to  keep  up  the  reverence  in  the  rustic  mind  for 
the  power  of  the  priesthood,  nobody  knows  to  this 
day.  There  is  still  standing  at  the  Landing  a  house 
that  has  always  been  said  to  be  haunted.  Its  ghost 
was  laid  properly,  but  she  seems  to  have  risen  again 
defiantly.  It  formerly  stood  very  near  the  shore  of 
the  little  harbor,  if  one  may  give  that  name  to  what 
was  simply  the  head  of  navigation  on  the  river.  The 
family  who  built  and  owned  it  first  all  died  long  ago, 
but  I  never  go  by  the  house  without  thinking  of 
its  early  history  in  those  days,  when  the  court  end  of 
the  little  town  was  next  the  river,  and  the  old  elms 
shaded  the  men  who  were  busy  with  their  trading 
and  shipping,  and  the  women  who  kept  up  a  stately 
fashion  of  living  in-doors,  and  walked  proudly  to  and 
fro  in  the  streets  dressed  in  strange  stuffs  that  had 
been  brought  home  to  them  from  across  the  seas. 
There  was  a  fine  set  of  people  in  the  little  town,  and 
Berwick  held  its  head  very  high,  and  thought  some  of 
the  neighboring  towns  of  little  consequence  that  have 
long  since  outgrown  it  and  looked  down  upon  it  in 
their  turn.  It  even  has  given  up  its  place  as  the 
head  of  the  family  of  villages  into  which  the  original 
township  has  been  divided.  It  is  only  South  Ber- 


24  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

wick  now  ;  but  I  like  to  call  it  Berwick  here,  as  it  has 
a  right  to  be  called,  for  it  was  the  oldest  settlement, 
and  the  points  of  the  compass  should  have  been  given 
to  the  newer  centres  of  civilization  which  were  its  off- 
shoots. 

The  oldest  houses  are,  with  one  or  two  excep- 
tions, by  far  the  finest  ones,  and  the  one  of  which  I 
have  spoken  still  keeps  up  as  well  as  it  can  the  pride 
as  well  as  the  name  of  its  first  owner.  One  cannot 
help  being  interested  in  this  man,  who  was  one  of  the 
earlier  physicians  of  the  town,  and  also  had  a  hand 
in  the  business  that  was  connected  with  the  river.  I 
have  heard  that  he  came  from  Plymouth  in  Massa- 
chusetts and  was  a  minister's  son,  but  if  ever  a  man's 
heart  gloried  in  the  good  things  of  this  life  it  was  his, 
and  there  was  not  a  trace  of  Puritan  asceticism  in  his 
character.  His  first  house  was  the  finest  in  town, 
and  stood  at  the  head  of  some  terraces  that  still  re- 
main, bordered  with  rows  of  elms,  and  overlooked 
the  river  ;  but  that  was  burnt,  and  afterward  replaced 
by  another,  which  was  for  some  mysterious  reason 
built  at  the  foot  of  the  terraces  near  the  water.  The 
doctor  was  said  to  be  a  very  handsome  man,  and  he 
dressed  uncommonly  well,  delighting  himself  with  fine 
broadcloth  cloaks  with  red  linings  and  silk  facings ; 
and  his  visits  to  his  admiring  patients  were  paid  on 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  25 

horseback,  as  was  the  custom  then,  but  he  always 
rode  an  excellent  horse,  and  dashed  about  the  coun- 
try in  great  splendor.  He  made  an  elaborate  will, 
entailing  his  property  in  English  fashion.  He  waited 
to  see  how  much  General  Lord  or  the  other  rich  men 
of  the  town  would  pay  toward  any  subscription,  and 
then  exceeded  the  most  generous.  He  even  asked 
how  much  the  richest  man  in  the  town  was  taxed, 
and  paid  of  his  own  accord  a  larger  sum  than  he, 
and  somehow  contrived  to  keep  up  year  after  year 
this  appearance  of  great  wealth,  and  expected  and 
received  great  deference ;  though  those  who  knew 
him  best  were  sure  he  must  be  poor,  the  pride  that 
went  with  it  forbade  familiarity  and  sympathy  alike. 
There  has  always  been  a  tradition  that  his  first  wife 
came  to  her  death  by  foul  means,  and  there  is  a  dis- 
like to  the  house,  which  seems  never  to  be  occupied 
for  any  length  of  time,  even  after  all  these  years.  The 
people  in  the  neighborhood  believe,  as  I  have  said, 
that  it  is  haunted,  and  I  have  often  heard  stories  of 
the  strange  cries,  and  the  footsteps  that  sometimes 
follow  you  if  you  go  up  the  hall  stairs  in  the  dark. 
The  doctor  himself  died  suddenly,  though  he  has 
often  been  seen  since  in  a  grand  brocade  dressing- 
gown  and  close  velvet  cap.  His  business  affairs  had 
naturally  become  a  good  deal  tangled,  but  no  one 


26  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

knew  how  much  so  until  after  his  death.  For  several 
years  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  carrying  back  and 
forth  a  little  padlocked  box  when  he  went  to  Ports- 
mouth, which  was  supposed  to  hold  money  and  valua- 
ble papers  ;  but  when  this  was  brought  home  from 
the  bank,  and  broken  open,  it  was  found  to  contain 
only  blank  bits  of  paper. 

His  wife,  whom  the  old  people  in  town  still  re- 
member, must  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  in  the 
house  on  the  wharf  after  she  was  left  a  widow ;  but 
she  was  still  the  grande  dame,  and  when  she  went 
into  society  her  old  laces  and  silks  and  her  fine  man- 
ners made  her  the  queen  of  her  company.  She  gave 
no  sigh  of  disappointment  at  her  altered  fortunes,  and 
as  long  as  the  doctor  lived  and  after  he  died,  she  was 
as  serenely  magnificent  and  untroubled  as  he.  The 
Guard  could  die,  but  it  never  surrendered,  and  the 
old  prestige  was  kept  up  bravely.  She  lived  alone, 
and  might  sometimes  have  needed  many  of  the  good 
things  of  life,  for  all  one  knows ;  but  she  was  always 
well  dressed,  and  kept  up  all  possible  forms  of  state, 
and  was  rigorous  in  observing  all  rules  of  etiquette. 
By  way  of  doing  a  great  favor  to  one  of  her  neigh- 
bors, she  allowed  a  stranger  the  use  of  one  of  her 
rooms  for  a  short  time,  and  this  person  used  to  hear 
a  bell  ring  in  the  morning,  after  which  Madam  Hovey 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  27 

would  move  about  in  her  room  ;  then  she  would  go 
down-stairs,  breakfast  being  apparently  announced; 
and  so  on,  through  the  day.  There  was  often  a  bell 
heard  tinkling  in  the  parlor  ;  she  would  apologize  for 
opening  the  outer  door  herself,  and  when  the  lodger 
called  the  mistress  of  the  house  was  always  quite  at 
liberty,  and  seemed  to  have  been  awaiting  guests  in 
her  parlor,  with  a  bit  of  lace  to  mend  in  her  fingers, 
or  some  silk  knitting,  as  if  she  occupied  her  leisure 
with  such  dainty  trifles.  It  was  some  time  before 
the  lodger  discovered,  to  her  amazement,  that  there 
was  not  a  servant  under  the  roof  to  do  my  lady's  bid- 
ding, but  that  she  still  kept  up  the  old  customs  of  the 
house.  Poor  soul !  it  was  not  all  silly  pretense.  If 
I  were  to  spend  a  night  (which  the  saints  forbid  !) 
in  that  beloved  mansion  where  she  lived  in  solitary 
majesty  for  so  many  years,  I  should  not  expect  to  be 
the  guest  of  the  proud  doctor's  first  companion  whose 
death  is  shrouded  in  mystery,  who  cries  dismally  and 
walks  to  and  fro  in  the  night,  to  beg  for  pity  and 
help.  I  should  look  over  my  shoulder  for  the  lady 
in  the  high  turban,  with  a  red  India  shawl  around 
her  shoulders,  who  stood  so  straight,  and  used  to 
walk  up  the  aisle  to  her  seat  in  church  on  Sunday  as 
if  she  were  a  duchess.  The  cries  and  the.  steps  be- 
hind me  would  be  most  annoying,  but  Madam  Hovey, 


28  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

if  she  also  haunts  her  house,  would  receive  me  ele- 
gantly. One  can  imagine  her  alone  in  her  house  at 
night,  with  the  jar  of  the  river  falls  and  the  wind 
rattling  her  windows,  fearful  of  her  future,  and  of 
the  poverty  and  misery  old  age  held  in  its  shaking 
hands  for  her.  But  she  carried  a  brave  face  in  the 
daylight,  however  troubled  she  may  have  been  under 
the  stars,  and  she  gave  to  the  towns-people  the  best 
of  lessons  in  behavior ;  for  she  was  always  gracious 
and  courteous,  and  fine  in  her  own  manners,  a  high- 
bred lady,  who  had  been  in  her  day  a  most  apt 
scholar  of  the  old  school. 

My  cruises  down  the  river  rarely  reach  beyond 
High  Point,  or  Pine  Point,  or  the  toll-bridge ;  but 
one  is  tempted  to  linger  there  late  for  the  sake  of  the 
beautiful  view.  The  salt  grass  is  a  dazzling  green, 
if  the  time  is  early  summer  and  the  tide  is  partly 
out,  and  from  the  bridge  to  the  Hamilton  house 
the  river  is  very  wide.  The  fine  old  house  faces 
you,  and  at  its  right  there  is  a  mountain,  which  is  a 
marked  feature  in  the  landscape  on  a  clear  day,  when 
it  looks  far  away  and  blue  in  the  distance.  The 
great  tops  of  the  Hamilton  elms  look  round  and 
heavy  against  the  sky,  and  the  shores  of  the  river  are 
somewhat  irregular,  running  out  in  points  which  are 
for  the  most  part  heavily  wooded,  and  form  back- 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  29 

grounds  of  foliage  for  each  other.  Being  at  different 
angles,  the  light  and  shade  of  each  are  distinct,  and 
make  a  much  finer  coloring  and  outline  than  could  be 
if  the  line  of  the  shore  were  unbroken  by  so  many 
bays  and  inlets.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  push  the  boat 
ashore  in  one  of  these  coves,  for  in  the  little  ravines 
that  lead  down  to  them  there  are  crowds  of  ferns  and 
wild  flowers,  and  it  is  easy  to  find  exactly  the  place 
for  a  little  feast  at  supper  time.  I  know  many  a 
small  harbor  on  the  eastern  shore,  where  a  willow  or 
a  birch  stands  out  in  front  of  the  dark  evergreens, 
and  at  one  place  an  oak  reaches  its  long  branches  far 
out  over  the  water ;  and  when  you  are  once  under  its 
shade,  and  watch  the  sunset  grow  bright  and  then 
fade  away  again,  or  see  the  boats  go  round  the  point 
from  the  wide  bay  into  the  narrow  reach  of  the  river 
above  it,  and  listen  to  the  bells  ringing  in  the  village 
or  in  some  town  farther  away,  you  hate  to  think  you 
must  take  the  oars  again,  and  go  out  into  the  twilight 
or  the  bright  sunshine  of  the  summer  afternoon. 

I  miss  very  much  some  poplars  which  stood  on  the 
western  shore,  opposite  the  great  house,  and  which 
were  not  long  since  cut  down.  They  were  not 
flourishing,  but  they  were  like  a  little  procession  of 
a  father  and  mother  and  three  or  four  children  out 
for  an  afternoon  walk,  coming  down  through  the  field 


30  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

to  the  river.  As  you  rowed  up  or  down  they  stood 
up  in  bold  relief  against  the  sky,  for  they  were  on 
high  land.  I  was  deeply  attached  to  them,  and  in  the 
spring,  when  I  went  down  river  for  the  first  time, 
they  always  were  covered  with  the  first  faint  green 
mist  of  their  leaves,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  been 
watching  for  me,  and  thinking  that  perhaps  I  might 
go  by  that  afternoon. 

On  a  spring  day  how  the  bobolinks  sing,  and  the 
busy  birds  that  live  along  the  shores  go  flitting  and 
chirping  and  whistling  about  the  world!  A  great 
fish-hawk  drops  through  the  air,  and  you  can  see 
the  glitter  of  the  unlucky  fish  he  has  seized  as  he 
goes  off  again.  The  fields  and  trees  have  a  tinge  of 
green  that  they  will  keep  only  for  a  few  days,  until 
the  leaves  and  grass-blades  are  larger  and  stronger  ; 
and  where  the  land  has  been  plowed  its  color  is  as 
beautiful  as  any  color  that  can  be  found  the  world 
over,  and  the  long  shining  brown  furrows  grow  warm 
lying  in  the  sun.  The  farmers  call  to  each  other 
and  to  their  horses  as  they  work  ;  the  fresh  breeze 
blows  from  the  southwest,  and  the  frogs  are  cheerful, 
and  the  bobolinks  grow  more  and  more  pleased  with 
themselves  every  minute,  and  sing  their  tunes,  which 
are  meant  to  be  sung  slower  and  last  longer,  as  if 
the  sweet  notes  all  came  hurrying  out  together. 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  31 

And  in  the  summer,  when  the  days  are  hot  and 
long,  there  is  nothing  better  than  the  glory  of  the 
moonlighted  nights,  when  the  shrill  cries  of  the  in- 
sects fill  all  the  air,  and  the  fireflies  are  everywhere, 
and  a  whiff  of  saltness  comes  up  with  the  tide.  In 
October  the  river  is  bright  steel  color  and  blue.  The 
ducks  rise  and  fly  away  from  the  coves  in  the  early 
morning,  and  the  oaks  and  maples  dress  themselves 
as  they  please,  as  if  they  were  tired  of  wearing  plain 
green,  like  everybody  else,  and  were  going  to  be  gay 
and  set  a  new  fashion  in  the  cooler  weather.  You  no 
longer  drift  lazily  with  the  current,  but  pull  your 
boat  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  are  quick  and  strong  with 
the  oars.  And  in  the  winter  the  river  looks  cold  and 
dead,  the  wind  blows  up  and  down  between  the  hills, 
and  the  black  pines  and  hemlocks  stare  at  each  other 
across  the  ice,  which  cracks  and  creaks  loudly  when 
the  tide  comes  up  and  lifts  it. 

How  many  men  have  lived  and  died  on  its  banks, 
but  the  river  is  always  young.  How  many  sailors 
have  gone  down  to  the  sea  along  its  channel,  and 
from  what  strange  countries  have  the  ships  come  in 
and  brought  them  home  again  up  this  crooked  high- 
way !  A  harbor,  even  if  it  is  a  little  harbor,  is  a 
good  thing,  since  adventurers  come  into  it  as  well 


32  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

as  go  out,  and  the  life  in  it  grows  strong,  because  it 
takes  something  from  the  world,  and  has  something 
to  give  in  return.  Not  the  sheltering  shores  of  Eng- 
land, but  the  inhospitable  low  coasts  of  Africa  and 
the  dangerous  islands  of  the  southern  seas,  are  left 
unvisited.  One  sees  the  likeness  between  a  harbor- 
less  heart  and  a  harborless  country,  where  no  ship? 
go  and  come  ;  and  since  no  treasure  is  carried  away 
no  treasure  is  brought  in.  From  this  inland  town  of 
mine  there  is  no  sea-faring  any  more,  and  the  ship- 
wrights' hammers  are  never  heard  now.  It  is  only 
a  station  on  the  railways,  and  it  has,  after  all  these 
years,  grown  so  little  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while 
for  all  the  trains  to  stop.  It  is  busy  and  it  earns  its 
living  and  enjoys  itself,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  its 
old  days  were  its  better  days.  It  builds  cheaper 
houses,  and  is  more  like  other  places  than  it  used  to 
be.  The  people  of  fifty  years  ago  had  some  things 
that  were  better  than  ours,  even  if  they  did  not  hear 
from  England  by  telegraph,  or  make  journeys  in  a 
day  or  two  that  used  to  take  a  week.  The  old  elms 
and  pines  look  strong  yet,  though  once  in  a  while  one 
blows  over  or  is  relentlessly  cut  down.  The  willows 
bv  the  river  are  cropped  and  cropped  again.  The 
river  itself  never  grows  old;  though  it  rushes  and 


RIVER  DRIFTWOOD.  33 

rises  high  in  the  spring,  it  never  dries  up  in  the  au- 
tumn; the  little  white  sails  flit  over  it  in  pleasant 
weather,  like  fluttering  moths  round  the  track  of  sun- 
light on  the  water  ;  one  troop  of  children  after  an- 
other steals  eagerly  down  to  its  forbidden  shores  to 
play. 


ANDREWS  FORTUNE. 


was  a  cold  day  early  in  December,  and  al- 
ready almost  dark,  though  the  sun  had  just 
gone  down,  leaving  a  tinge  of  light  red,  the 
least  beautiful  of  all  the  sunset  colors,  on  the  low 
gray  clouds  in  the  southwest.  The  weather  was  for- 
lorn and  windy,  and  there  had  already  been  a  light 
fall  of  snow,  which  partly  covered  the  frozen  ground, 
and  was  lying  in  the  hollows  of  the  lields  and  past- 
ures and  alongside  the  stone  walls,  where  the  wind 
had  blown  it  to  get  it  out  of  its  way.  The  country 
was  uneven  and  heavily  wooded  ;  the  few  houses  in 
sight  looked  cold  and  wiuterish,  as  if  the  life  in  them 
shared  the  sleep  of  the  grass  and  trees,  and  would 
not  show  itself  again  until  spring.  Yet  winter  is  the 
leisure  time  of  country  people,  and  it  is  then,  in  spite 
of  the  frequent  misery  of  the  weather,  that  their  so- 
cial pleasures  come  into  stunted  bloom.  The  young 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  35 

people  frolic  for  a  while,  but  they  soon  outgrow  it, 
and  each  rising  generation  is  looked  upon  with  scorn 
by  its  elders  and  betters  for  thinking  there  is  any 
pleasure  in  being  out-of-doors  in  cold  weather.  No 
wonder  that  a  New  England  woman  cheers  herself 
by  leaving  her  own  sewing  and  going  to  the  parish 
society  to  sit  close  to  an  air-tight  stove  and  sew  for 
other  people  ;  how  should  she  dance  and  sing  like  an 
Italian  peasant  under  a  blue  and  kindly  sky  !  There 
should  have  been  another  Sphinx  on  some  vast  north- 
ern waste  where  it  is  forever  cold  weather,  and  the 
great  winds  always  blow,  and  generations  after  gen- 
erations of  people  have  lived  and  died.  Life  is  no 
surprise  on  the  banks  of  the  fertile  old  Nile,  it  could 
not  help  being,  but  the  spirit  of  the  North  seems  de- 
structive ;  life  exists  in  spite  of  it. 

Along  the  country  road  a  short,  stout-built  woman, 
well  wrapped  with  shawls,  was  going  from  her  own 
home,  a  third  of  a  mile  back,  to  the  next  house, 
where  there  were  already  lights  in  one  of  the  upper 
and  one  of  the  lower  rooms.  She  said  to  herself, 
"  He  must  be  livin'  yet,"  and  stepped  a  little  faster, 
even  climbing  a  low  wall  and  going  across  a  field  to 
shorten  the  distance.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  as  she  went  she  left  behind  her  a  track  of 
broken-down  golden-rod  stalks  and  dry  stems  of  grass 


36  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

which  had  been  standing,  frozen  and  dry,  with  the 
thin  snow  about  their  roots.  "  Land  sakes,  how  this 
field  has  run  out ! "  said  she,  not  without  contempt ; 
"  but  I  don'  know  's  I  ever  expect  to  see  it  bettered." 
She  opened  the  side  door  of  the  house  and  went 
into  the  kitchen,  where  several  persons  were  sitting. 
There  was  a  great  fire  blazing  in  the  fire-place,  and 
a  little  row  of  mugs  and  two  bowls,  each  covered 
with  a  plate,  stood  at  one  side  of  the  hearth  to  keep 
warm,  as  if  there  were  somebody  ill  in  the  house. 
And  sure  enough  there  was,  for  old  Stephen  Dennett, 
its  master,  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  short  last 
sickness.  There  were  three  women  and  two  men  in 
the  kitchen,  and  they  greeted  the  new-comer  with 
subdued  cordiality,  as  was  befitting;  it  was  a  little 
like  a  funeral  already,  and  they  did  not  care  to  be 
found  cheerful,  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  just  before 
Mrs.  Haynes  came  in  they  solemnly  drank  a  pitcher 
of  old  Mr.  Dennett's  best  cider,  urging  each  other  to 
take  some,  for  there  was  no  knowing  that  there  might 
not  be  a  good  deal  for  them  all  to  do  before  long. 
With  this  end  in  view  of  keeping  up  their  strength, 
they  had  also  shared  a  mince  pie  and  a  large  quan- 
tity of  cheese.  "  We  'd  better  eat  while  we  can," 
said  old  Betsey  Morris,  who  was  hostess,  having  been 
housekeeper  at  the  farm  for  a  good  many  years.  "  I 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  37 

don't  feel 's  if  I  could  lay  the  table,"  said  she,  with 
unaffected  emotion,  and  the  mourners  in  prospective 
begged  her  not  to  think  of  it ;  but  they  were  hungry, 
hard-working  men  and  women,  and  were  all  glad  to 
have  something  to  eat.  When  some  doughnuts  were 
brought  out  they  ate  those  also,  all  trying  in  vain  to 
think  of  some  apology  for  such  good  appetites  at  such 
a  moment ;  but  since  they  had  to  be  silent  the  feast 
was  all  the  more  solemn. 

It  was  evident  that  the  sickness  was  either  sudden, 
or  had  become  serious  within  a  very  short  time,  for 
the  family  affairs  had  gone  on  as  usual.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  household  had  been  taken  unawares  by  the 
messenger  of  Death,  and  surprised  in  the  midst  of 
fancied  security.  It  was  Wednesday,  and  the  clothes- 
horse,  covered  with  the  white  folds  of  yesterday's 
ironing,  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  kitchen,  while  the 
smaller  horse,  which  Betsey  Morris  always  facetiously 
called  the  colt,  was  nearer  the  fire,  with  its  burden  of 
flannels  and  blue  yarn  stockings.  It  was  a  comfort- 
able old  kitchen,  with  a  beam  across  its  ceiling,  and 
two  solid  great  tables,  and  a  settle  at  one  side  the 
fire,  where  the  two  men  sat  who  were  going  to  watch. 
The  fire-place  took  up  nearly  all  one  side  of  the 
room  ;  the  wood-work  around  it  was  painted  black, 
and  at  one  side  the  iron  door  of  the  brick  oven  looked 


38  COUNTRY  BY-WATS. 

as  if  it  might  be  the  entrance  to  a  very  small  dun- 
geon. There  was  a  high  and  narrow  mantel-shelf, 
where  a  row  of  flat-irons  were  perched  like  birds  gone 
to  roost;  also  a  match-box,  and  a  turkey- wing,  and  a 
few  very  dry  red  peppers  ;  while  a  yellow-covered 
Thomas's  Almanac,  —  much  worn,  it  being  Decem- 
ber, —  was  hanging  on  its  nail  at  one  corner.  There 
was  a  tall  clock  in  the  room,  which  ticked  so  slowly 
that  one  fancied  it  must  always  make  waiting  seem 
very  tiresome,  and  that  one  of  its  hours  must  be  as 
long  as  two.  On  one  of  the  tables  there  was  a  spare- 
rib  which  had  been  brought  in  to  thaw.  Jonas 
Beedle  and  Nathan  Martin  sat  on  the  settle,  while 
Mrs.  Beedle  and  Mrs.  Goodsoe  and  Betsey  Morris 
were  at  different  distances  from  the  fire  in  splint-bot- 
tomed chairs.  They  had  seen  Mrs.  Haynes  coming 
across  the  field,  —  it  was  still  light  enough  out-doors 
for  that,  —  but  they  had  not  spoken  of  it  to  each 
other,  though  they  put  the  cider- jug  and  the  rest  of 
the  doughnuts  into  the  closet  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  I  told  'em  one  day  last  week,"  said  Jonas  Beedle, 
"  that  Stephen  seemed  to  be  all  wizened  up  since 
cold  weather  come.  Why,  here 's  Mis'  Haynes ! 
Take  a  cheer  right  close  to  the  fire,  now  won't  ye  ? 
It 's  a  dreadful  chilly  night.  We  've  just  ben  a-hav- 
in'  some  ci —  " 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  39 

"  Yes,"  said  his  wife,  nudging  and  interrupting  him 
desperately.  "We  was  just  a-sayin'  we  wondered 
where  you  was,  but  I  misdoubted  you  was  n't  able  to 
be  out  on  account  of  your  neurology." 

"  I  went  over  to  Ann's  this  morning,"  said  Mrs. 
Haynes,  still  a  little  out  of  breath  from  her  walk. 
"  One  o'  her  children  's  took  down  with  throat  dis- 
temper, and  she  expects  the  rest  '11  get  it.  Joseph, 
he  brought  in  word  after  dinner  that  somebody  goin' 
by  said  Mr.  Dennett  had  a  shock  this  morning,  and 
wa'n't  likely  to  come  out  of  it,  and  I  told  'em  I  must 
get  right  home.  I  felt  's  if  't  was  one  o'  my  own 
folks.  How  does  he  seem  to  be  ?  " 

"  paying  in  a  sog,"  said  Betsey  Morris  for  the 
twentieth  time  that  day.  "  The  doctor  says  there 
ain't  much  he  can  do.  He  had  me  make  some  broth 
and  teas,  and  he  left  three  kinds  o'  medicine,  — 
there 's  somethin'  steeping  now  in  them  mugs,  in 
case  he  revives  up.  He  said  we  could  feed  him  a 
little  to  a  time  if  he  come  to  any,  and  if  we  could 
keep  his  strength  up  he  might  get  out  of  it.  He  's 
coming  again  about  six.  He  was  took  dreadful  sud- 
den. I  was  washin'  up  the  dishes  after  breakfast, 
and  he  said  he  was  goin'  over  to  the  Corners :  there 
was  a  selec'men's  meeting.  He  eat  as  good  a  break- 
fast as  common,  but  he  seemed  sort  of  heavy.  He 


40  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

went  out  and  put  the  boss  in,  and  left  him  in  the 
barn,  and  come  back  to  get  his  coat.  Says  he,  '  Is 
there  anything  you  're  in  need  of  from  the  store, 
Betsey  ?  It  looks  like  foul  weather.'  And  I  says, 
No.  I  little  thought  it  was  the  last  time  he  'd  speak 
to  me,"  and  she  stopped  to  dry  her  eyes  with  her 
apron,  while  the  sympathetic  audience  was  quiet  in 
the  firelight,  and  the  tea-kettle  began  to  sing  as  if  it 
had  no  idea  of  what  had  happened.  "  He  always  was 
the  best  o'  providers.  It  was  only  one  day  last  week 
he  was  a-joking  and  saying  he  was  going  to  keep  me 
better  this  year  than  ever  he  did.  Says  he,  '  I  'm 
going  to  take  my  comfort  and  live  well  long  's  I  do 
live.'  There  's  everything  in  the  house  ;  we  killed 
early,  and  there  's  the  other  hog  he  set  for  the  first  o' 
January ;  and  he  's  put  down  a  kag  of  excellent  beef. 
The  sullar  's  got  enough  in  it  for  a  rigiment,  I  told 
him  only  yesterday  ;  and  says  he,  '  Betsey,  don't  you 
know  it 's  better  to  have  some  to  spare  than  some  to 
want  ?  '  I  can  see  him  laugh  now." 

"  There  's  plenty  will  need  it,  if  he  don't,"  said 
Mrs.  Goodsoe,  who  was  a  dismal,  grasping  soul,  and 
sat  farthest  from  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Haynes  gathered  herself  up  scornfully,  —  she 
did  not  like  her  neighbor.  "  You  were  a-sayin'  he 
was  going  to  the  selec'men's  meeting,"  said  she. 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  41 

"  Yes,"  said  Betsey.  "  He  said  he  'd  got  to  get 
some  papers,  and  I  offered  to  fetch  'em ;  but  he  never 
wanted  to  be  waited  on  ;  and  he  went  up-stairs,  —  I 
s'pose  to  that  old  chist  o'  drawers  overhead.  I  heard 
a  noise  like  something  heavy  a-falling ;  and  my  first 
thought  was  he  'd  tipped  the  chist  o'  drawers  over, 
for  I  know  the  lower  drawers,  where  the  sheets  and 
pillow-cases  is  kept,  sticks  sometimes ;  and  then 
something  started  me,  and  come  across  me,  quick  as 
a  flash,  that  there  was  something  wrong,  and  T  got 
up-stairs  as  quick  as  ever  I  could,  and  found  him  lay- 
ing on  the  floor." 

"  I  s'pose  he  did  n't  know  nothin'  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Haynes. 

"  Bless  you,  no  !  I  tried  to  get  him  up,  and  I 
found  I  could  n't.  I  thought  he  was  dead,  but  I  see 
Jim  Pierce  a-goin'  by,  —  he  was  some  use  for  once 
in  his  life,  —  and  I  sent  him  for  help.  Mis'  Beedle 
come  right  over,  bein'  so  near,  and  Jim  met  the  doc- 
tor up  the  road,  and  we  got  him  into  bed,  and  there 
he  lavs.  It  give  me  a  dreadful  start.  I  ain't  myself 

yet,"" 

"  Andrer  's  here,  I  s'pose,"  said  Mrs.  Haynes,  as  if 
she  thought  it  of  very  little  consequence. 

"  Yes,"  said  Betsey.  "  He  'd  walked  over  to  the 
saw-mill  right  after  breakfast  to  carry  word  about 


42  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

some  boards  his  uncle  wanted,  but  lie  got  back  just 
as  the  doctor  was  leavin'.  He  's  been  real  faithful ; 
he  ain't  left  the  old  gentleman  a  minute.  He  's  all 
broke  down,  he  feels  so.  I  never  saw  him  so  dis- 
tressed ;  he  ain't  one  that  shows  his  feelin's  much  of 
any." 

"  I  think  likely  he  '11  be  married  right  away  now," 
said  Mr.  Martin.  "  Stephen  told  me  in  the  summer 
that  he  'd  left  him  about  everything.  He  ain't  no 
such  a  man  as  his  uncle,  but  I  don't  know  no  harm 
of  Andrew."  A  silence  fell  between  the  guests,  and 
the  fire  snapped  once  in  a  while  and  made  such  a 
light  that  the  one  little  oil  lamp  might  have  been 
blown  out  for  all  the  good  it  did  ;  nobody  would  have 
missed  it. 

"  I  told  our  folks  last  night  there  was  going  to  be 
a  death  over  this  way,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe.  "  I  was 
a-looking  out  o'  the  window  over  this  way  last  night 
just  before  I  went  to  bed,  and  I  see  a  great  bright 
light  come  down  ;  and  I  says,  There  's  a  great  blaze 
fallen  over  Dennett's  way,  and  my  father  always  said 
it  was  a  sure  sign  of  a  death.  l  He '  laughed,  and 
says  my  eyes  was  dazzled  from  setting  before  the  fire. 
I  'd  like  to  know  what  he  '11  say  when  he  hears  o' 
this,"  —  triumphantly.  fl  He  went  up  to  the  wood- 
lot,  chopping,  before  day." 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  43 

"  I  did  hear  a  death-tick  in  the  wall  after  I  went 
to  bed,  two  or  three  nights  ago,"  said  Betsey  Morris ; 
and  then  there  was  another  pause. 

"  I  s'pose  I  might  go  up  easy  and  jist  look  in,  bein' 
a  connection,"  ventured  Mrs.  Haynes  meekly ;  and 
luckily  nobody  opposed  her.  In  fact,  they  had  all 
had  that  satisfaction. 

"  You  might  ask  Andrer  if  he  could  n't  rise  his 
uncle's  head  by  and  by,  so  I  could  give  him  a  little 
o'  the  broth  ;  he  ain't  eat  the  value  o'  nothin'  since 
morning,  and  he  's  a  hearty  man  when  he  's  .about," 
suggested  Betsey. 

"  You  ought  to  help  natur'  all  you  can,"  said  Na- 
than Martin  ;  and  armed  with  this  sufficient  excuse 
Mrs.  Haynes  went  up-stairs  softly. 

Andrew  Phillips  sat  by  the  bedside,  looking  as  dis- 
mal as  possible,  —  a  thin,  dark  young  man  with  a 
pleasant  sort  of  face,  yet  you  always  felt  at  once  that 
you  could  get  on  just  as  well  without  him.  "  Per- 
haps we  had  better  wait  now  until  the  doctor  comes," 
answered  he  when  he  heard  the  message  from  Bet- 
sey. "  Do  sit  down,  Mrs.  Haynes.  I  have  been 
wishing  somebody  would  come  up,  —  it  's  lonesome 
since  it  got  dark.  Susan  has  n't  sent  any  word,  has 
she  ?  I  sent  Jim  Pierce  over  right  after  dinner,  but 
I  suppose  he  stopped  in  at  every  house  "  — 


44  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  Not  as  I  've  heard  of,"  said  Mrs.  Haynes.  "  I  've 
only  just  got  here.  I  was  over  to  Ann's  to  spend  a 
day  or  so,  and  I  never  got  word  about  y'r  uncle  till 
past  two  o'clock.  How  does  he  seem  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  young  man.  "  He  's  lost 
that  red  look,  but  he  seems  to  have  failed  all  away  ;  " 
and  they  both  went  close  to  the  bed  to  look  at  the 
face  on  the  pillow,  which  showed  at  once  that  Death 
had  come  very  near.  The  old  man's  eyes  were  shut, 
and  he  looked  pinched  and  sunken,  and  as  if  he  were 
ten  years  older  than  in  the  morning.  One  hand  that 
lay  outside  the  bed  moved  a  little,  and  the  fingers 
picked  at  the  blanket.  "  He  has  n't  stirred  all  day 
except  his  arm,  and  that  hand  once  in  a  while,  as  you 
see  it  now." 

Mrs.  Haynes  knew  better  than  he  what  it  meant, 
and  she  gave  a  long  look  and  turned  away  with  a 
heavy  sigh.  "  He  's  death-struck,"  she  whispered, 
"  but  he  may  hold  out  for  a  good  spell  yet.  He  's 
been  a  master  strong  man  ;  I  should  ha'  said  yester- 
day he  had  as  good  a  chance  as  any  one  of  us.  He  's 
been  the  best  neighbor  I  ever  had,  I  know  that,"  and 
she  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  did  not  speak  for  a 
while.  She  had  not  taken  it  in  that  her  old  neigh- 
bor was  nearing  his  end  until  she  saw  him,  and  her 
excitement  and  curiosity  at  heai-ing  the  news  gave 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  45 

way  to  sincere  sorrow.  "  He  '11  be  a  great  loss," 
said  she  in  a  changed  voice,  after  some  little  time. 
"  I  do'  know  but  I  shall  miss  him  more  than  anybody, 
except  it  was  one  of  our  own  folks." 

"  He  's  been  like  father  and  mother  both  to  me," 
answered  the  young  man,  sorrowfully.  "  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  getting  along  without  him." 

"  Yes,  you  '11  have  to  look  out  for  yourself  now, 
Andrer,"  said  Mrs.  Haynes.  "  I  don't  know 's  you  're 
to  blame  for  not  being  of  a  turn  for  farming,  but  I 
s'pose  you  '11  have  a  wife  to  look  after,  and  it  's  a 
poor  sort  of  a  man  that  can't  keep  what 's  give  to 
him.  Susan  's  a  good  smart  girl ;  it  '11  be  a  great 
thing  for  you  to  have  a  stirrin'  wife."  Andrew 
winced  at  this  thrust,  which  had  not  been  given 
through  any  malice,  for  Mrs.  Haynes  was  a  kind- 
hearted  woman,  if  she  did  happen  to  be  a  little  want- 
ing in  tact,  "You'll  have  to  put  right  to  it,  next 
summer,  to  fetch  the  place  up.  I  come  across  the 
seven-acre  piece  to  save  time  as  I  come  along,  and 
it 's  run  out  dreadfully  within  a  year  or  two.  It 
did  n't  look  to  me  as  if  it  would  be  fit  for  much  more 
than  pasture,  unless  it  had  a  sight  laid  out  on  it.  I 
don't  see  how  the  old  gentleman  come  to  neglect  it 
so  ;  he  used  to  take  a  good  deal  of  pains  with  that 
Viece  years  ago,  —  he  cut  a  sight  of  hay  off  of  it  one 
pell." 


46  COUNTRY  BY- WATS, 

It  seemed  heartless  to  young  Phillips  that  she 
should  speak  slightingly  of  the  man  who  lay  there 
unable  to  defend  himself.  "  He  has  been  breaking 
up  this  good  while,"  said  he,  "  but  I  never  seemed  to 
see  it  before." 

Down  in  the  kitchen  the  neighbors  were  talking 
together.  The  pitcher  of  cider  had  come  from  the 
very  oldest  barrel  in  the  cellar,  and  it  had  set  the 
tongues  of  the  company  wagging.  Mrs.  Goodsoe 
had  gone  home  ;  she  said  with  a  heavy  sigh  that 
there  was  nobody  but  herself  to  do  anything,  and  she 
would  be  over  again  before  bed-time  if  her  lameness 
was  n't  too  bad.  She  tied  a  great  brown-checked 
gingham  handkerchief  over  her  head,  and  pinned  a 
despairing  old  black  shawl  tight  round  her  thin  shoul- 
ders, and  went  out  into  the  night. 

"  If  you  can  make  it  convenient,  I  hope  you  '11  be 
over  in  the  morning,  Mis'  Goodsoe,"  said  Betsey. 

"  If  it  's  so  that  I  can,"  groaned  the  departing 
guest. 

"  She  would  n't  miss  of  it,"  snapped  Mrs.  Beedle, 
as  the  door  was  shut.  And  Betsey  answered,  — 

"  There  !  I  did  n't  want  her  no  more  'n  an  old  fly, 
and  she  always  did  make  my  flesh  creep,  but  I  knew 
Mr.  Dennett  would  n't  want  nobody's  feelings  hurt." 

"  I  don't  see  what  folks  always  wants  to  be  com- 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  47 

plaining  for,"  said  Mrs.  Beedle.  "  She  always  was 
just  so  when  she  was  a  girl.  Nothin'  ever  suits  her. 
She  ain't  had  no  more  troubles  to  bear  than  the  rest 
of  us,  but  you  never  see  her  that  she  did  n't  have  a 
chapter  to  lay  before  ye.  I  've  got 's  much  feelin'  as 
the  next  one,  but  when  folks  drives  in  their  spiggits 
and  wants  to  draw  a  bucketful  o'  compassion  every 
day  right  straight  along,  there  does  come  times  when 
it  seems  as  if  the  bar'l  was  getting  low." 

Mr.  Beedle  and  Betsey  chuckled  a  little  over  this, 
approvingly.  Mr.  Martin  was  dozing  at  his  end  of 
the  settle,  but  presently  he  roused  himself,  and  asked 
Mr.  Beedle,  drowsily,  "  Do  ye  know  what  Otis  got 
for  them  sticks  o'  rock-maple  ?  " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Beedle  ;  "  they  're  for  ship  tim- 
ber, I  understood.  I  heard  yisterday  he  was  going 
to  cut  some  o'  them  white  oaks  near  his  house,  the 
second-sized  ones  ;  they  was  extra  nice  ones  for  keels 
o'  vessels,  I  was  told." 

"  They  ain't  suitable  for  keels,"  said  Nathan  scorn- 
fully. He  had  once  worked  in  a  ship-yard,  and  was 
always  delighted  to  parade  his  superior  knowledge 
before  his  land-locked  neighbors.  "  They  might  be 
going  to  use  them  for  kilsons  or  sister-kilsons."  This 
was  added  after  grave  reflection,  and  Mr.  Beedle  tried 
to  remember  what  part  of  a  ship  a  sister-keelson  was, 


48  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

but  he  could  not  do  it ;  and  he  asked  Betsey  Morris 
for  the  lantern,  and  the  two  men  went  out  to  the 
barn  to  look  after  the  cattle,  leaving  the  women  alone 
together. 

"  Mis'  Haynes  seems  to  be  stopping  up-stairs  quite 
a  while,"  said  Mrs.  Beedle, 

"  I  expect  Andrer  's  glad  to  have  her  ;  he  ain't 
much  used  to  sickness.  Poor  Andrer !  I  expect 
he  '11  take  it  very  hard,  losing  of  his  uncle,"  said 
Betsey. 

"  Well,  I  tell  ye  a  fat  sorrow  's  a  good  sight  easier 
to  bear  than  a  lean  one  ;  and  then  he  's  got  Susan. 
How  that  girl,  that  might  have  taken  her  pick,  ever 
come  to  take  up  with  Andrer  Phillips  is  more  'n  I 
know."  (Mrs.  Beedle's  own  daughter  had  at  one 
time  paid  Andrew  a  good  deal  of  attention.)  "  She 
wa'n't  one  to  drop  like  a  ripe  apple  off  a  bough  the 
first  time  she  got  asked." 

"  Now  Mis'  Beedle,"  said  Betsey  with  a  good  deal 
of  spirit,  "Andrer  ain't  the  worst  fellow  that  ever 
was.  She  might  ha'  done  a  good  deal  worse,  even  if 
he  wa'n't  expectin'  property.  I  don't  doubt  she  had 
an  eye  to  the  means,  myself,  but  he  's  stiddy  as  a 
clock,  and  his  uncle  always  said  he  had  a  good  mind. 
He  ain't  had  to  work  for  his  livin' ;  and  the  old  sir 
never  was  one  that  wanted  to  give  up  the  reins.  He 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  49 

expected  the  boy  to  live  here  after  him,  and  he  never 
had  it  on  his  mind  to  put  him  to  a  trade.  He  '11 
make  a  farmer  yet ;  there  's  a  sight  o'  girls  turns  out 
good  housekeepers  that  never  had  no  care  before  they 
was  married.  And  Andrer 's  got  a  sight  o'  book- 
learnin'." 

"  Book-learnin' !  "  said  Mrs.  Beedle,  with  a  jerk 
of  her  head.  "  He  's  a  book-fool,  if  ever  there  was 
one.  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  set  in  judgment,"  she  added 
in  a  different  tone,  suddenly  mindful  that  the  young 
man  was  likely  to  be  her  nearest  and  richest  neigh- 
bor in  a  few  hours.  "  I  always  set  everything  by 
his  mother.  Her  and  me  was  the  same  year's  child'n, 
and  was  fetched  up  together.  Don't  ever  hint  I  said 
anything  that  was  n't  pleasant.  I  ain't  one  that 
wants  to  make  trouble,  and  he  '11  find  me  a  good 
neighbor.  Anybody  has  to  speak  out  sometimes." 

"  I  ain't  one  to  make  trouble,  neither,"  said  Betsey. 
"  I  've  wondered  sometimes,  myself,  he  did  n't  spudge 
up  and  be  somebody ;  his  uncle  never  would  ha' 
thwarted  him,  but  then  he  never  give  a  sign  he  was  n't 
satisfied.  And  Andrer  never  give  him  a  misbeholden 
word,  —  I  can  answer  for  that." 

The  doctor  came  and  went,  telling  the  women  that 
he  could  not  say  how  long  the  patient  might  last. 

"  I  s'pose  folks  knows  of  it  all  over  town  ?  "  asked 
4 


50  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

Betsey,  meekly  conscious  of  the  importance  of  the 
occasion  and  her  own  consequence. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  doctor,  who  stood  warming 
his  great  fur  coat  before  the  fire,  having  declined  the 
offer  of  supper  or  something  hot,  for  he  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  home.  His  gig  rattled  away  out  of  the 
yard,  and  silence  once  more  fell  on  the  house.  An- 
drew came  down-stairs  for  a  little  while,  looking 
grieved  and  tired,  and  said  that  he  meant  to  watch, 
at  least  until  midnight ;  the  doctor  thought  that  his 
uncle  might  be  conscious  before  he  died.  Then  Mrs. 
Haynes  came  down,  and  after  a  while  Mrs.  Beedle 
and  Betsey  tiptoed  up  the  stairs,  and  as  they  listened 
outside  the  door  they  heard  some  one  speaking. 

"  You  don't  suppose  he  's  got  his  reason  ?  "  whis- 
pered one  to  the  other,  and  they  waited  a  minute  or 
two  ;  it  was  very  cold  in  the  little  entry. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  they  heard  Andrew  say  gently,  "  you 
've  had  an  ill  turn  ;  "  and  then  all  was  silent  again. 

"  I  must  n't  forget  those  town  orders.  I  can't  seem 
to  think  where  they  are,"  said  a  weak  voice  that  was 
as  unlike  as  possible  the  cheerful  loud  tone  in  which 
Mr.  Dennett  had  usually  spoken. 

"  Don't  try  to  think,  uncle,"  said  Andrew.  "  Don't 
you  feel  as  if  you  could  eat  a  little  broth  ?  "  But 
there  was  no  answer. 


ANDREW'S   FORTUNE.  51 

u  I  sha'n't  stand  for  selec'man  another  year ;  it 's  a 
good  deal  o'  trouble,"  said  the  weak  voice,  after  a 
minute  or  two. 

"  He  thinks  it 's  this  mornin',  poor  creatur',"  whis- 
pered Betsey.  "  I  guess  I  '11  step  down  and  get  that 
broth  ;  what  do  you  think  ?  Perhaps  he  would  take 
a  little."  But  when  she  came  back  she  found  it  was 
not  wanted.  Mrs.  Beedle  had  gone  in,  and  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  lay  dying.  They  stood  by  the  bed- 
side watching,  with  awe-struck  faces,  while  the  mortal 
part  of  him  fought  fiercely  for  a  minute  to  keep  its 
soul,  which  had  gently  and  surely  taken  itself  away. 
There  was  this  minute  of  distress  and  agony,  and 
afterward  the  tired  and  useless  body  was  still.  The 
old  man's  face  took  on  a  sweet  and  strange  look  of 
satisfaction,  —  a  look  of  rest,  as  if  it  found  its  sleep 
of  death  most  welcome  and  pleasant.  So  soon  it 
was  over,  the  going  away  which  the  bravest  of  us 
shudder  at  sometimes  and  dread  ;  but  dying  seems 
after  all,  to  those  who  watch  it  oftenest,  a  simple  and 
natural  and  blessed  thing,  and  one  forgets  the  lifeless 
body  in  a  sudden  eagerness  to  follow  the  living  soul 
into  the  new  world. 

The  funeral  was  appointed  for  Saturday,  and  every- 
body was  busy.  Andrew  instinctively  took  command, 
and  Betsey  and  the  women  who  came  to  help  her 


52  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

consulted  him  with  unwonted  deference.  The  house 
had  to  be  swept  and  dusted  and  put  in  order,  and 
there  were  great  preparations  going  on  in  the  kitchen  ; 
for  old  Mr.  Dennett  had  been  a  hospitable  man,  and 
it  should  not  be  said  that  any  one  went  away  from 
his  house  hungry. 

"  I  declare,  it  don't  seem  more  than  yesterday  it 
was  Thanksgiving,  and  he  made  me  make  up  double 
the  mince  pies  I  did  last  year.  I  little  thought  what 
they  was  going  to  be  for,"  said  Betsey  Morris,  whose 
heart  was  very  sad. 

The  morning  after  Mr.  Dennett  had  died,  a  letter 
came  for  him  from  an  old  friend  in  Boston,  who  had 
left  that  part  of  the  country  in  his  boyhood,  and  had 
made  his  fortune  and  become  rich  and  prominent. 
None  of  his  own  family  were  living  there,  and  he 
claimed  Mr.  Dennett's  hospitality  on  the  score  of 
their  early  friendship  and  the  occasional  business  let- 
ters which  had  passed  between  them  since.  Andrew 
was  a  little  afraid  at  first  to  tell  Betsey  of  this  addi- 
tional care,  but  she  received  the  news  graciously. 
She  said,  mournfully,  how  pleased  the  old  gentleman 
would  have  been  ;  but  she  thought  also  that  she  would 
show  the  city  guest  that  they  knew  how  to  do  things 
if  they  did  live  in  the  country,  and  since  her  pride  as 
a  housekeeper  was  put  to  its  utmost  test,  she  was  not 


ANDREW'S  FORT  ONE.  53 

sorry  to  have  so  worthy  a  spectator  among  her  au- 
dience. 

But  a  new  interest  quickly  followed  this,  for  one 
of  the  women  whispered  to  another  that  Andrew 
could  not  find  the  will.  He  had  supposed  that  it  was 
safe  in  the  keeping  of  old  Mr.  Estes,  who  was  the 
only  lawyer  in  that  region ;  but  Mr.  Estes  had  hap- 
pened to  say  that  two  or  three  weeks  before,  Mr. 
Dennett  had  taken  it  home  with  him.  Andrew  was 
told  that  it  was  written  on  a  sheet  of  blue  letter-paper, 
and  sealed  with  a  wafer. 

"  I  looked  all  through  the  papers  in  the  desk  up- 
stairs," said  he  to  Mrs.  Haynes,  "  and  in  my  uncle's 
coat  pockets,  but  I  can't  seem  to  find  it."  It  was  an 
evident  relief  to  tell  this,  and  Mrs.  Haynes  was  at 
once  much  interested.  "It  must  have  slipped  be- 
tween some  of  the  other  things,  or  he  may  have  tied 
it  up  with  some  old  bills,  or  something,  by  mistake. 
I  suppose  Betsey  don't  know  ?  " 

But  she  did  not,  and  was  deeply  concerned,  for  she 
had  long  indulged  hopes  of  a  legacy.  She  helped 
Andrew  look  all  through  the  pigeon-holes  again,  and 
in  every  likely  and  unlikely  place  they  could  think 
of ;  but  it  was  no  use,  and  the  fear  took  possession 
of  them  that  Mr.  Dennett  might  have  destroyed  it, 
meaning  to  make  another  will,  and  never  had  done 


54  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  He  told  me  only  a  week  or  two  ago,"  said  An- 
drew, "  that  everything  was  going  to  be  mine,  and  I 
might  do  as  I  chose.  I  was  speaking  to  him  about 
the  barn  ;  you  know  he  had  set  his  mind  on  altering 
it.  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  and  he  went  to  the 
bedside  and  lifted  the  sheet  from  the  dead  man's  face  ; 
but  he  looked  white  and  indifferent,  and  kept  his  se- 
crets. 

The  days  crept  by  until  Saturday,  and  each  night 
two  neighbors  came  to  watch,  after  the  old  custom  ; 
and  those  who  were  lying  awake  in  the  house  could 
hear  them  every  little  while  tramp  up  the  stairs  and 
down  again,  and  the  grumble  of  their  voices  as  they 
talked  together  in  the  kitchen,  trying  to  keep  them- 
selves awake.  On  Friday  Mr.  Dunning  came,  and 
was  shocked  to  find  that  the  only  person  he  really 
cared  very  much  to  see  had  so  lately  died  ;  but  he 
accepted  Andrew's  invitation,  and  made  up  his  mind 
to  stay  until  the  funeral,  discovering  that  it  was  ex- 
pected of  him  and  looked  upon  as  desirable.  There 
was  a  strange  contrast  between  him  and  his  old 
friend  ;  the  city  man  looked  much  younger  in  his 
well-fitting  clothes,  and  his  quick,  business-like  man- 
ner gave  him  an  air  of  youth  which  was  in  great  con- 
trast to  Mr.  Dennett's  slow,  farmer-like  ways.  As 
he  had  grown  older  he  had  found  himself  thinking 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  55 

more  and  more  about  the  people  he  had  known  when 
he  was  a  boy,  and  the  places  where  he  had  worked 
and  played.  It  seemed  strange  at  first  to  see  hardly 
any  familiar  faces,  and  he  had  a  curious  sense  of  lone- 
liness as  he  sat,  himself  an  object  of  great  interest, 
among  the  mourners  ;  and  the  pomp  and  piety  of  the 
old-fashioned  country  funeral  interested  him  not  a 
little.  The  people  gathered  from  far  and  near  to 
pay  respect  to  the  good  man  who  had  died ;  and  they 
came  in  by  twos  and  threes,  with  solemn  faces,  to 
look  at  him,  and  many  of  them  touched  his  face,  lest 
they  might  have  bad  dreams  of  him.  It  was  the  first 
time  his  friends  had  come  to  his  house  and  he  had 
not  welcomed  them,  but  he  lay  in  his  coffin  unmind- 
ful of  them  all,  looking  strange  and  priest-like  in  the 
black  robe  in  which  they  had  shrouded  him.  It  was 
a  bleak,  cold  day,  and  he  would  have  looked  more 
comfortable,  and  certainly  more  familiar,  in  his  own 
old  coat  that  was  faded  a  little  on  the  shoulders. 

Betsey  Morris  was  dressed  in  proper  black,  and 
was  crying  softly,  with  a  big  pocket  handkerchief 
held  close  to  her  face,  which  she  occasionally  moved 
aside  a  little  as  the  people  came  in,  to  dart  a  glance 
at  them.  Andrew  looked  worn  and  anxious.  Every 
one  told  him  that  the  will  must  be  found,  but  he  was 
by  no  means  certain,  and  if  it  did  not  come  to  light 


56  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

he  was  left  penniless.  He  was  only  the  nephew  of 
Stephen  pennett's  wife,  and  though  he  had  been  al- 
ways treated  as  a  son  he  had  never  been  formally 
adopted.  Several  people  noticed  that  he  had  a  manly 
look  that  they  never  had  seen  before,  but  for  his  part 
he  felt  helpless  and  adrift. 

After  a  long  and  solemn  silence  the  old  minister 
rose  to  speak  of  the  departed  pillar  of  the  church  arid 
town,  as  he  called  Mr.  Dennett,  and  the  old  clock  in 
the  kitchen  ticked  louder  than  ever  in  the  hush  that 
followed.  After  the  remarks  were  ended  he  lifted 
the  great  Bible  which  was  lying  ready  on  the  light 
stand,  and  read  slowly  and  reverently  the  short  and 
solemn  last  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes  ;  and,  though  there 
were  fewer  young  people  to  heed  the  preacher's  warn- 
ing than  old  people  to  regret  their  long  delay,  it 
seemed  to  fit  the  occasion  best.  "  Or  even  the  silver 
cord  be  loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  broken,"  he  read 
in  his  trembling  voice  ;  "  for  man  goeth  to  his  long 
home,  and  the  mourners  go  about  the  streets."  He 
thought  of  his  kind  friend  and  generous  parishioner, 
and  it  was  said  afterward  that,  though  the  old  parson 
was  an  able  preacher  and  gifted  in  prayer,  he  never 
had  spoken  as  he  did  that  day.  He  knew  this  chapter 
by  heart ;  he  had  read  it  at  many  a  funeral  before 
and  he  repeated  the  last  few  verses,  lowering  the 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  57 

Bible  as  he  held  it  in  his  arms,  for  it  was  heavy 
And  out  from  between  the  leaves  slid  a  thin  folded 
paper,  which  went  wavering  through  the  air  to  the 
floor  ;  it  was  sealed  with  a  big  red  wafer,  and  one  or 
two  persons  who  sat  close  by  and  saw  it,  knew  by  a 
sudden  instinct  that  it  was  the  missing  will. 

Andrew  Phillips  turned  very  pale  for  a  moment, 
and  then  as  suddenly  flushed.  He  started  from  his 
chair,  but  his  respect  for  the  time  and  place  checked 
him,  and  with  great  propriety  he  nodded  to  the  old 
woman  at  whose  feet  it  had  fallen,  —  a  distant  con- 
nection of  the  family,  a  feeble,  wheezing  old  creature, 
—  who  had  made  a  great  effort  to  be  present.  She 
stooped  over  stiffly  and  picked  it  up ;  she  looked  as  if 
it  were  only  a  commonplace  paper,  which  must  not 
litter  the  floor  on  such  a  day.  The  minister  had  al- 
ready begun  his  prayer,  but  when  he  besought  the 
Lord  that  the  memory  of  the  departed  might  be  a  les- 
son, and  that  the  young  man  on  whom  his  mantle  was 
to  fall  might  prove  himself  worthy  of  it,  Andrew 
prayed  for  himself  still  more  heartily,  and  before  the 
coffin-lid  was  screwed  down  he  bent  over  and  kissed 
his  uncle's  forehead.  Some  of  the  women's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  ;  he  might  not  be  a  go-ahead  young  man, 
but  his  fondness  for  his  uncle  was  unaffected,  and,  be- 
ing his  uncle's  heir  and  standing  in  his  place,  his  feel- 


58  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

ings  were  much  more  to  be  respected  than  if  he  were 
still  a  dependent. 

When  the  mourners  were  called  out  he  meant,  as 
he  went  by  old  Mrs.  Towner's  chair,  to  take  the  will. 
He  had  tried  to  call  her  attention,  and  make  her  un- 
derstand that  he  wanted  the  paper ;  but  she  was  dull 
of  sight,  and  sat  there  watching  the  proceedings  with 
intense  interest.  Andrew  was  shy,  and  he  had  a  hor- 
ror of  seeming  anxious  about  the  property  before  all 
the  people;  and  when  he  and  Betsey  were  called  (Mr. 
Lysander  Dennett  and  family,  the  only  cousins,  not 
responding),  he  went  out  into  the  yard,  a  little  un- 
easy at  heart,  to  take  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession. 

They  walked  two  by  two  across  the  wind-blown 
field  to  the  little  family  bury  ing-ground.  It  was  a 
long  procession,  and  the  doctor  was  one  of  the  mourn- 
ers ;  he  had  pleaded  in  vain  critical  cases  in  the  next 
town,  for  his  wife,  mindful  of  the  exactions  of  society, 
would  not  hear  to  any  excuses.  He  shivered  and 
grumbled  as  he  walked  with  her  to  the  grave.  "  I 
shall  be  out  every  night  for  a  week  after  this,  looking 
after  lung  fevers,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  see  why  people 
must  go  through  with  just  so  much  !  "  and  he  hastily 
brushed  away  a  cold  tear  that  had  started  down  his 
cheek  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  clumsy  coffin  as  it 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  59 

was  carried  unevenly  along  in  the  hands  of  the  bear- 
ers. He  had  been  deeply  attached  to  old  Mr.  Den- 
nett, but  the  people  who  walked  before  him  thought 
he  showed  very  little  feeling.  When  they  were  n ear- 
ing the  house  again  some  one  came  running  out  and 
spoke  to  the  doctor,  who  followed  him  hurriedly  ;  the 
word  was  passed  from  one  to  another  that  old  widow 
Towner  was  in  some  kind  of  a  fit,  and  Andrew's  first 
thought  was  of  the  will,  for  it  was  she  who  had  it  in 
her  pocket. 

She  had  stayed  behind  to  keep  the  house,  being  so 
feeble,  and  spent  with  a  long  walk  in  the  cold. 
"  Foolish  for  old  people  to  be  out  in  such  perishing 
weather,"  said  the  doctor  to  himself  as  he  bent  over 
her.  "  She  's  gone,  poor  soul,"  he  told  the  startled 
people  who  were  crowding  round  him.  She  was  lying 
near  the  fire-place,  on  the  kitchen  floor  ;  she  had  been 
putting  on  some  wood.  "  I  've  been  expecting  this, 
—  she  's  had  a  heart  complaint  these  twenty  years," 
said  the  doctor. 

And  the  will  had  disappeared  again.  They  looked 
in  her  pocket,  but  it  was  not  there,  and  there  was  no 
trace  of  it  anywhere  ;  only  at  the  side  of  the  fire  were 
some  scraps  of  half-burnt  writing  paper,  —  the  order 
in  which  people  had  been  called  out  to  take  their  places 
in  the  procession.  "  I  meant  to  keep  that,"  said  Betsey 


60  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

Morris,  almost  angrily.  Whether  the  old  widow  had 
been  a  little  dazed  and  had  burnt  the  will  also,  no- 
body knew,  but  it  was  certainly  gone.  She  had  been 
trying  to  put  the  house  in  order  a  little  ;  some  of  the 
borrowed  chairs  were  already  standing  outside  the 
door,  for  she  was  familiar  with  the  contents  of  the 
house.  Poor  little  drudge  !  she  had  worked  to  the 
very  end. 

It  was  almost  too  great  an  excitement  for  the  towns- 
people ;  most  of  them  had  just  heard  of  the  missing 
will  for  the  first  time,  and  the  crowd  of  wagons  dis- 
appeared slowly.  This  sudden  death  was  a  great 
drawback  to  the  funeral  feast,  but  Betsey  managed 
skillfully  to  muster  those  guests  who  were  to  stay, 
for  that  was  an  important  part  of  the  rites.  Poor  old 
widow  Towner  was  comfortably  disposed  of,  and 
wrapped  in  some  coverlids,  and  carried  away  on  the 
floor  of  a  wagon  to  the  desolate  little  black  house 
where  she  had  lived  alone  for  many  years ;  and  then 
the  tables  were  laid,  and  the  company  gravely  ate 
and  drank  their  fill. 

Andrew  saw  his  lady-love  alone  only  for  a  minute 
after  the  funeral.  "  I  wish  I  could  stay  and  help  you 
look  for  it,"  said  she,  "  but  father  says  there  's  a  storm 
coming  and  we  'd  better  get  home."  It  annoyed  him 
to  find  that  her  only  thought  was  of  the  will.  To  be 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  61 

sure,  it  was  uppermost  in  his  own  mind,. but  he  had 
too  lately  seen  his  oldest  and  kindest  friend  put  into 
a  frozen  grave  to  be  quite  forgetful  of  him,  and  he 
would  have  liked  best  for  Susan  to  sympathize  with 
the  better  part  of  his  thoughts.  It  (lashed  through 
his  mind  that  he  had  once  heard  some  one  say  that 
Susan  had  an  eye  to  the  windward,  but  he  held  her 
hand  the  more  affectionately  for  a  moment,  as  he 
helped  her  into  her  father's  wagon,  and  tucked  in  the 
buffalo  skin  with  care  by  way  of  making  amends  for 
such  injustice.  There  had  been  times  when  it  had 
seemed  to  him  that  Susan  could  not  understand  his 
best  thoughts,  and  that  she  was  a  little  bored  if  he 
talked  about  subjects  instead  of  people,  and  he  sighed 
a  little  and  felt  lonely  as  he  went  back  to  the  house. 
**  The  higher  you  climb,  the  fewer  you  have  for  com- 
pany," he  said  to  himself ;  and  it  struck  him  as  being 
a  very  fine  thought. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  conversation  going  on  in 
the  house,  and  as  he  opened  the  kitchen  door,  where 
the  women  were  busy  clearing  away  the  supper,  there 
was  a  sudden  hush.  To  tell  the  truth,  they  had  been 
taking  sides  on  the  question  of  Susan's  being  willing 
to  marry  him  if  the  will  could  not  be  found. 

"  You  need  n't  tell  me,"  said  our  friend  Mrs.  Bee- 
die,  as  she  stood  at  the  closet  putting  away  some 


62  COUNTRY,  BY-WAYS. 

plates.  "  Susan  never  'd  had  him  in  the  world  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  property.  I  always  thought 
she  'd  a  looked  another  way  if  the  dollars  had  n't 
shone  in  her  eyes.  I  don't  blame  her.  I  should  n't 
pick  out  Andrer  for  his  self  alone.  1  'd  as  soon  live 
on  b'iled  rice  the  year  round.  I  like  to  see  a  young 
fellow  that 's  got  some  snap  to  him." 

4<  But  there,  now  he  's  got  to  be  his  own  master  he 
may  start  up,"  suggested  some  one.  "•  I  always 
thought  well  of  Andrer." 

"  Land,  so  did  I !  "  said  Mrs.  Beedle,  with  surprise. 
"  I  ain't  saying  nothing  against  him.  What  do  you 
guess  old  lady  Towner  could  a  done  with  the  will  ? 
It  don't  seem  like  her  to  have  burnt  it.  But  she 
need  n't  have  burnt  the  paper  o' names  for  the  pro- 
cession; they're  usually  kept.  I  know  we've  got 
'em  to  our  house  for  every  funeral  that 's  been  since 
I  can  remember :  gran'ther's,  and  grandma'am's,  and 
old  Aunt  Kitty's,  and  all.  She  had  an  awful  sight  o' 
folks  follow  her.  You  know  she  wa'n't  but  half-sis- 
ter to  grand'ther,  and  owned  half  the  farm.  'T  was 
her  right  to  have  a  good  funeral,  and  she  had  it ;  they 
set  out  the  best  there  was.  Her  own  mother  was  a 
Shepley,  and  she  had  over  thirty  own  cousins  on  the 
Shepley  side,  and  they  were  a  dreadful  clannish  set. 
I  know  we  set  the  supper  table  over  five  times ; 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  63 

mother  always  said  it  was  a  real  pleasant  occasion; 
't  was  in  September,  and  a  beautiful  day  for  a  fune- 
ral, and  all  the  family  gathered  together.  I  don't 
more  'n  just  remember  it  myself.  Aunt  Hitty  was  in 
her  ninety-fourth  year,  and  of  course  her  death 
wasn't  no  calamity,  for  she  hadn't  had  her  mind  for 
above  two  years.  I  was  small,  but  I  can  see  just  how 
she  looked.  She  'd  get  a  word  fixed  in  her  mind  in 
the  morning,  and  she  'd  keep  it  a-going  all  day  ;  some- 
times she  'd  call  grand'ther  by  name,  and  I  rec'lect 
one  day  she  said  divil,  divil,  divil,  till  it  seemed  as  if 
we  could  n't  stand  it  no  longer." 

"  I  do  hope  I  sha'n't  out-live  my  usefulness," 
whined  a  thin  little  old  woman  in  black.  "  I  always 
had  a  dread  o'  being  a  burden  to  others." 

"  I  say,"  said  Mrs.  Beedle  stoutly,  u  that  old  folks 
has  a  right  to  be  maintained  and  done  for ;  it  ain't 
no  favor  to  them.  It  looks  dreadful  hard  to  me,  that 
after  you  've  toiled  all  your  good  years,  and  laid  up 
what  you  could,  and  stood  in  your  lot  and  place  as 
long  as  you  had  strength,  the  minute  you  get  feeble 
you  're  begrudged  the  food  you  eat  and  the  chair  you 
set  in.  What 's  the  use  of  scanting  yourself  and  lay- 
ing up  a  little  somethin',  and  seeing  other  folks  spend 
it !  Some  ain't  got  no  feelin's  for  the  old,  but  for 
my  part  I  like  to  make  'em  feel  of  consequence." 


64  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  Poor  old  Mis'  Towner ! "  said  a  pleasant-faced 
woman.  u  It  keeps  coming  over  me  about  her ; 
somehow  it  seems  to  me  as  if  she  had  been  dreadful 
hesolate,  livin*  all  alone  so.  She  would  do  it ;  many 's 
the  time  we've  asked  her  to  our  house  to  stop 
through  a  cold  spell  or  a  storm,  but  she  never  seemed 
inclined.  I  thought  when  I  see  her  coming  in  to-day 
she  'd  better  be  to  home  ;  but  she  always  was  a  great 
hand  to  go  to  funerals  when  she  could,  and  then  bein' 
a  connection,  too.  Mis'  Ash  and  Mis'  Thompson 
said  they  'd  hurry  home  and  be  to  her  place  by  the 
time  they  got  hffr  there." 

"  I  s'pose  likely  she  had  a  little  something  laid 
up  ?  "  asked  Betsey  Morris. 

"  Enough  to  bury  her,  it 's  likely.  I  know  of  her 
having  thirty-eight  dollars  she  got  for  some  wood  a 
spell  ago.  You  know  she  owned  a  little  wood-lot 
over  in  the  Kimball  tract.  She  picked  up  a  little  now 
and  then  sellin'  eggs,  but  I  guess  she  ain't  earnt  any- 
thing tailoring  this  good  while,  her  eyes  have  been 
failin'  her  so." 

The  will  had  not  been  mentioned  since  Andrew 
had  come  in  and  seated  himself  on  the  settle,  which 
had  been  pushed  back  from  its  usual  place.  It  had 
grown,  dark,  and  people  had  said  it  was  no  use  to 
hunt  any  longer,  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  go 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE,  65 

on  with  the  search  ;  beside,  he  could  only  look  in  the 
same  places  over  again.  He  could  not  help  feeling 
worried  ;  he  was  impatient  for  the  morrow  to  come. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  all  this  suffering  and  loss  was 
felt  by  himself  alone.  It  was  like  a  tornado  that 
had  blown  through  his  life,  but  everybody  else  ap- 
peared to  be  on  the  whole  enjoying  it,  and  to  have  a 
great  deal  to  talk  about.  He  thought,  as  he  listened 
to  the  busy,  gossiping  women,  how  cheerless  and 
friendless  an  old  age  must  be  when  there  was  no 
money  in  a  man's  pocket,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  felt  poor,  and  fearful  of  the  future,  which  had 
always  seemed  secure  until  then.  He  remembered 
how  often  his  uncle  had  said,  "  It 's  a  cold  world 
when  you've  nothing  to  give  it;"  and  somehow 
there  was  a  great  difference  in  his  own  mind  between 
his  sitting  there,  uncertain  and  almost  unnoticed,  and 
his  receiving  the  people  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  as 
the  chief  mourner  and  his  uncle's  heir.  He  was  the 
master  of  the  house  for  the  time  being  ;  to  be  sure, 
the  will  was  missing  then,  but  now  it  had  disappeared 
almost  before  his  face  and  eyes.  This  sudden  change 
in  his  fortune  seemed  very  strange  and  sad  to  him, 
and  he  wished  Susan  had  not  gone  home.  Their  love 
for  each  other  was  left,  at  any  rate,  and  he  was  rich 
again  in  the  thought  that  she  was  his ;  and  then  a 
5 


66  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

dreadful  doubt  came,  —  what  if  she  had  an  eye  to  the 
windward  ?  But  he  crushed  this  serpent  of  a  thought 
instantly. 

Later  Mr.  Dunning  came  in ;  he  had  gone  home 
with  some  old  acquaintances  who  lived  not  far  away, 
and  had  spent  part  of  the  evening.  The  snow  had 
already  begun  to  sift  down  as  if  there  were  a  long 
storm  coming;  the  people  had  all  gone  away,  and 
Andrew  and  Betsey  Morris  and  their  guest  were  left 
to  themselves. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  this  trouble  is  about  the  will," 
said  Mr.  Dunning ;  and  Andrew  went  over  the  story 
briefly. 

"  It  looks  dark  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Dunning,  "  but 
it  does  n't  seem  as  if  anybody  in  their  senses  would 
burn  such  a  thing  without  knowing  what  it  was ; 
however,  she  may  not  have  been  in  her  senses.  It  is 
a  pity  you  did  not  take  it  yourself  before  you  left  the 
house."  Betsey  thought  so  too,  and  could  have  men- 
tioned that  everybody  said  it  was  just  like  him.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  she  might  have  put  it  back  in  the 
Bible  again,  thinking  it  was  a  family  record,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind." 

"  I  thought  of  that,  and  I  looked  there,  but  I  could 
not  find  it,"  said  Andrew  ;  but  he  went  into  the  best 
room  and  brought  out  the  Bible,  and  looked  through 
it  carefully,  leaf  by  leaf. 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  67 

"  Who  is  the  heir  at  law  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dunning ; 
and  he  was  told  that  it  was  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Den- 
nett's, old  Lysander  Dennett,  who  lived  seventeen  or 
eighteen  miles  away.  It  would  have  been  a  great 
sorrow  to  the  old  gentleman  if  he  had  thought  of  his 
property  going  in  that  direction. 

"  He  would  have  given  what  he  had  to  the  State 
sooner  than  have  such  a  thing  happen  !  "  said  Betsey, 
excitedly.  "  I  believe  he  'd  turn  over  in  his  grave. 
You  know  he  was  a  very  set  man,  but  he  did  have 
excellent  judgment." 

"  I  wish  I  had  come  a  little  sooner ;  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  Stephen  again,"  said  Mr.  Dunning ;  and 
they  were  all  silent  for  a  time. 

"  Why  don't  you  put  your  uncle's  death  in  the 
Bible,  now  you  've  got  it  right  here,  Andrer  ? " 
asked  Betsey,  and  she  brought  the  little  stone  bottle 
of  ink,  and  Andrew  carefully  wrote  the  name  and 
date.  "  He  was  the  last  of  them,"  said  Betsey 
mournfully,  "  and  they  was  always  respectable  folks. 
I  suppose  you  remember  the  old  people  well  as  I  do, 
Mr.  Dunning  ?  "  — 

Mr.  Dunning  was  not  used  to  feeling  sleepy  at 
half-past  nine,  though  that  hour  was  unusually  late 
for  his  entertainers,  and  finding  that  he  seemed  dis- 
posed to  linger,  Andrew  put  more  wood  on  the  fire, 


68  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

and  drew  some  cider,  and  brought  some  apples  from 
the  cellar,  and  the  guest  seemed  very  comfortable. 
It  was  like  old  times,  he  said.  He  asked  Andrew  a 
great  many  questions  about  the  old  dwellers  in  the 
town,  —  what  had  become  of  the  boys  and  girls  he 
used  to  know ;  and  at  last  he  asked  the  young  man 
some  questions  about  himself,  and  suddenly  said, 
with  a  directness  that  was  startling,  "  In  case  of  the 
will's  not  turning  up,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  have  hardly  had  time  to  think,"  said  Andrew, 
flushing  ;  and  then,  being  sure  of  sympathy,  he 
opened  his  heart  to  the  gray-headed  man,  who  seemed 
to  him  to  be  finishing  his  life  while  he  was  just  be- 
ginning. "  I  believe  I  have  n't  a  very  good  reputa- 
tion, Mr.  Dunning,  but  I  feel  sure  I  could  make 
something  of  myself  if  I  had  the  chance.  I  never 
have  had  anything  to  do  that  I  liked  to  do.  I  never 
took  to  farming  ;  my  uncle  never  wanted  to  give  up 
the  reins,  and  I  did  n't  want  him  to.  He  could  n't 
benr  the  thought  of  my  going  away  and  leaving  him, 
and  you  know  there  is  n't  much  business  in  a  farm- 
ing town  like  this  for  a  young  man.  I. don't  know 
which  way  to  turn,"  said  poor  Andrew,  a  sense  of 
the  misery  of  the  situation  coming  over  him  as  it 
never  had  before.  "  I  don't  want  to  blame  the  best 
friend  I  ever  had,  but  I  wish  now  he  had  put  me  to 
some  business  or  other." 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  69 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Mr.  Dunning  absently. 
"  It  would  have  made  it  easier  for  you,  perhaps  ;  but 
if  you  did  n't  start  of  your  own  accord,  he  probably 
did  n't  want  to  push  you ;  he  was  glad  to  have  you 
here.  My  boys  are  all  scattered  ; "  and  then  he  said 
no  more  for  a  while.  Andrew  felt  half  rebuked,  and 
half  convinced  that  it  had  been  right  to  stay  at 
home.  He  suspected  that  his  guest  was  thinking 
of  his  own  affairs,  and  wished  he  had  not  told  so 
long  a  story. 

All  night  long  Andrew  turned  and  tossed  in  his 
bed,  and  thought  about  his  troubles,  until  his  head 
ached,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  it  was  time  to  get  up 
in  the  early  dark  morning  and  go  out  to  feed  the 
cattle.  As  soon  as  it  was  light  and  breakfast  was 
over,  they  all  hunted  again  for  the  will,  high  and 
low,  up-stairs  and  down,  but  it  was  no  use  ;  and  later 
they  went  decorously  to  meeting.  The  neighbors 
came  in,  and  Mr.  Dunning  was  the  hero  of  the  hour, 
and  was  treated  with  great  ceremony  and  honor.  He 
was  a  well-known  man,  and  his  coming  was  taken  as 
a  great  favor.  Mr.  Dennett's  fame  had  been  only 
provincial,  and  Andrew's  perplexities  would  wait  to 
be  considered  later.  It  was  a  very  exciting  time, 
and  the  people  met  together  in  the  farm-house  kitch- 
ens and  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  one  another.  One 


70  COUNTRY  BY-WATS. 

day  had  been  much  like  another  for  a  great  while 
before  that  week,  and  life  had  been  like  reading  one 
page  of  a  book  over  and  over  again. 

Early  Monday  morning  Mr.  Dunning  went  away. 
Andrew  drove  him  over  to  the  village  to  take  the 
stage.  He  used  to  dream  in  his  boyhood  that  he 
would  come  back  some  day  a  rich  man ;  the  dream 
had  come  true ;  but  there  was  after  all  a  dreary  pa- 
thos in  it.  Everybody  had  made  a  king  of  him,  and 
had  seemed  proud  if  he  remembered  them,  and  yet, 
—  he  did  not  care  as  he  used  to  think  he  should.  He 
said  he  meant  to  come  back  in  the  summer,  and  he 
told  Andrew  that  he  hoped  to  find  him  master  of  the 
place ;  and  Andrew  made  a  desperate  effort  to  smile. 
"  If  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  you  must  let  me 
know,  my  boy,"  said  he.  "  I  thought  a  great  deal 
of  your  uncle ;  he  did  me  some  good  turns  when  we 
were  young  together." 

u  I  have  often  heard  him  say  that  he  wished  he 
could  see  you  again,"  said  the  young  man.  "  He 
would  have  been  so  pleased  to  have  this  visit.  He 
used  to  speak  of  your  sitting  together  always  at 
school,  and  he  used  to  be  so  proud  when  he  read 
your  name  in  the  papers." 

Mr.  Dunning  coughed  a  little  and  looked  away, 
and  asked  the  name  of  one  of  the  hills  which  he  had 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  71 

forgotten.  "  Yes,  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  him  once 
more,"  he  said  after  a  few  minutes ;  and  then  he 
was  forced  to  think  of  his  own  schemes  and  plans, 
for  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  his  every-day  world 
again. 

It  was  only  two  or  three  days  before  Betsey  Mor- 
ris heard  the  sound  of  bells,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  to  see  Mr.  Lysander  Dennett  coming  in  from 
the  road,  driving  a  lame  white  horse  in  an  old  high- 
backed  sleigh.  Andrew  had  gone  to  see  Susan 
Mathes,  so  she  was  all  alone.  She  told  herself  that 
Mr.  Dennett  might  have  waited  a  full  week  before 
he  came  spying  round,  and  she  would  not  go  to  the 
door  to  welcome  him ;  so  he  was  a  long  time  putting 
his  horse  under  a  shed  and  covering  him  with  the 
buffalo  robe,  which  was  worn  until  it  looked  fit  for 
only  a  blacksmith's  apron.  He  stamped  the  snow  off 
his  boots  and  flapped  his  arms  to  get  the  stiffness  out, 
for  it  was  very  cold  ;  the  sky  looked  as  if  there  were 
another  storm  coming.  He  dallied  as  long  as  possi- 
ble, hoping  that  somebody  would  come  out ;  but  at 
last  he  summoned  courage,  and  crossed  the  yard  to 
the  house  and  knocked  at  the  door.  Betsey  had  been 
slyly  watching  him  through  the  window  with  a  grim 
chuckle,  but  she  kept  him  waiting  a  few  minutes 
longer,  and  then  met  him  with  affected  surprise. 


72  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

She  was  apparently  hospitable,  but  she  placed  a  chair 
for  him  almost  into  the  fire  itself,  and  entreated  him 
to  lay  off  his  coat  and  stop,  it  was  so  long  since  he 
had  been  over,  —  a  cruel  thrust  at  him  for  not  hav- 
ing been  at  the  funeral.  "  He  never  did  come  'less 
it  was  after  money,  mean-spirited  old  toad  !  "  thought 
she. 

Cousin  Lysander  was  slow  of  speech  ;  he  unwound 
a  long,  dingy,  yarn  comforter  from  his  throat,  and 
then  he  bent  forward  and  rubbed  his  hands  together 
before  the  fire.  He  had  a  curious,  narrow  face,  with 
a  nose  like  a  beak,  and  thin  straggling  hair  and  whis- 
kers, with  two  great  ears  that  stood  out  as  if  they 
were  a  schooner's  sails  wing-and-wing.  Betsey  drew 
her  chair  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place,  and  be- 
gan to  knit  angrily. 

"  We  was  dreadful  concerned  to  hear  o'  cousin 
Stephen's  death,"  said  the  poor  man.  "  He  went 
very  sudden,  did  n't  he  ?  Gre't  loss  he  is." 

"  Yes,"  said  Betsey,  "  he  was  very  much  looked  up 
to  ; "  and  it  was  some  time  before  the  heir  plucked 
up  courage  to  speak  again. 

*'  Wife  and  me  was  lotting  on  getting  over  to  the 
funeral ;  but  it 's  a  gre't  ways  for  her  to  ride,  and  it 
was  a  perishin'  day  that  day.  She 's  be'n  troubled 
more  than  common  with  her  phthisic  since  cold 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  73 

weather  come.  I  was  all  crippled  up  with  the  rheu- 
matism ;  we  waVt  neither  of  us  fit  to  be  out "  (plain- 
tively). "  'T  was  all  I  could  do  to  get  out  to  the  barn 
to  feed  the  stock  while  Jonas  and  Tim  was  gone. 
My  boys  was  over,  I  s  'pose  ye  know  ?  I  don' 
know  's  they  come  to  speak  with  ye ;  they  're  back- 
ward with  strangers,  but  they  're  good  stiddy  fel- 
lows." 

"  Them  was  the  louts  that  was  hanging  round  the 
barn,  I  guess,"  said  Betsey  to  herself. 

"  They  're  the  main-stay  now ;  they  're  ahead  of 
poor  me  a'ready.  Jonas,  he 's  got  risin'  a  hundred 
dollars  laid  up,  and  I  believe  Tim  's  got  something 
too,  —  he  's  younger,  ye  know  ?  " 

But  Betsey  gave  her  chair  an  angry  hitch  at  this 
mixture  of  humility  and  brag,  and  then  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  herself,  for  the  memory  of  old  Mr.  Den- 
nett's kindness  and  patience  rebuked  her.  "  I  Ve  al- 
ways heard  they  was  good  boys,"  she  said.  "  Mr. 
Dennett  was  speakin'  of  'em  only  last  week ;  he 
thought  Jonas  must  be  about  out  of  his  time." 

"  Next  June,"«said  Lysander,  taking  heart. 

("  I  come  just  as  near  saying  that  he  gpoke  of 
leavin'  them  something,"  said  Betsey  afterward,  "  but 
I  did  n't.  I  thought  he  might  as  well  tell  right  out 
what  he  come  for.") 


74  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  Andrer  's  away,  I  take  it  ?  " 

And  Betsey  answered  yes,  but  that  he  would  be 
back  early.  "  He  went  off  before  dinner  ;  he 's  got 
to  be  home  to  see  some  folks  that 's  coming.  You  'd 
better  stop,  now  you  're  over,"  she  said,  and  her  tone 
was  milder.  She  was  a  tender-hearted  soul,  and  she 
had  made  him  uncomfortable  until  she  was  misera- 
ble herself. 

"  I  tell  you  I  dread  to  see  Andrer,"  said  the  old 
man  sincerely,  in  almost  a  whisper.  "  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  come  and  have  it  over  with,  but  I  tell 
you  when  I  got  into  the  yard  I  wished  I  was  home 
again.  Sometimes  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had  a  mite  o' 
right  to  what  Stephen  meant  to  give  to  somebody 
else  ;  but  Andrer  ain't  got  his  proofs,  and  my  boys 
has  had  a  hard  chance.  Somehow  or  'nother,  it's 
always  been  up-hill  work  to  our  place,  and  I  feel 's  if 
the  law  gives  it  to  me,  it 's  the  will  o'  Providence,  and 
I  ain't  got  no  right  to  set  my  will  ag'inst  it.  But  I 
want  to  make  things  pleasant  with  Andrer ;  I  thought 
if  I  come  right  over,  and  we  talked  it  over  pleasant 
together,  we  could  fix  it  someway  for  the  best.  I 
mean  well,  Betsey,  I  tell  ye  honest  I  do  ;  and  if  we 
find  out  what  Stephen  calc'lated  to  do  for  you,  you 
shall  have^  every  cent,  if  it  has  to  come  out  o'  my 
part." 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  75 

"  I  ain't  thought  no  great  ahout  that,"  said  Betsey, 
who  was  already  considering  what  there  was  in  the 
house  to  make  a  hearty  supper  for  him,  he  looked  so 
starved  and  timid,  like  an  old  white  rabbit.  "  But  I 
do  feel  for  Andrer,  —  you  know  how  he  has  been 
brought  up.  There  he  is  now,  I  declare,  and  he  's 
fetched  Susan  with  him,"  and  she  bustled  out  to 
greet  them,  leaving  the  visitor  more  unhappy  and  at 
a  loss  than  ever.  He  had  thought  that  everything 
was  getting  on  comfortably,  and  he  meant  to  lay  his 
case  before  Betsey  Morris,  and  then  steal  away  lest 
he  might  encounter  Andrew,  and  the  idea  of  meeting 
Susan  was  particularly  unpleasant.  But  he  reflected 
that  it  would  all  have  to  be  gone  through  with  some 
time  or  other,  and  he  sat  up  as  straight  as  he  could 
in  his  chair,  prepared  to  hold  his  own. 

Betsey  shut  the  kitchen  door  after  her,  and  went 
out  a  few  steps  to  speak  to  them  before  they  drove 
on  into  the  shed.  "  Lysander  's  come,"  —  and  for  the 
life  of  her  she  could  not  help  a  smile.  "  I  was  mad 
at  first,  but  when  I  come  to  see  how  meachin'  he  was 
I  turned  to  and  pitied  him,  just  as  your  uncle  used 
to.  He  'd  scold  dreadfully  when  he  see  him  a-com- 
ing,  but  he  always  loaded  up  his  old  wagon  for  him 
when  he  went  home.  I  guess  you  can  have  things 
pretty  much  as  you  want  'em." 


76  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

Andrew  frowned.  He  had  to  go  through  the  same 
process  of  mind  as  Betsey,  but  he  achieved  it  in 
about  the  same  length  of  time  ;  and  though  he  was 
very  angry  at  first,  after  he  had  put  up  his  own  horse 
he  gave  the  lame  white  beast  a  big  measure  of  corn 
and  a  pitchforkful  of  hay,  and  put  her  in  the  warmest 
stall.  He  still  felt  as  if  he  would  like  to  ill-treat  her 
master  as  he  went  into  the  house.  Old  Lysander 
looked  more  meaching  than  ever,  as  Betsey  had  ex- 
pressed herself,  and  Susan  sat  near  the  fire,  looking 
cross  and  cold.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  but  not  a  very 
good-tempered  one,  and  it  had  been  a  serious  an- 
noyance to  her  to  find  that  there  was  some  danger  of 
her  having  to  come  down  from  the  high  perch  she 
had  taken  as  mistress  in  prospect  of  the  Dennett 
farm.  Andrew  had  been  laughed  at  for  his  old- 
fashioned,  sober  ways,  and  for  his  mind's  habit  of 
wool-gathering.  Some  blunders  he  had  made  were 
kept  alive  as  great  jokes,  and  he  had  suffered  from 
contrast  with  a  smart  young  fellow  who  had  come 
from  the  nearest  large  town,  and  was  clerk  at  the 
country  store  and  post-office.  He  had  a  "  way  "  with 
him,  and  Andrew  had  not,  and  Susan's  heart  had 
been  pulled  in  both  directions. 

Andrew  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  old  man ; 
he  looked  a  little  like  Mr.  Dennett,  and  it  seemed  as 


ANDREW'S   FORTUNE.  77 

if  some  thin  and  weather-beaten  likeness  of  him  were 
sitting  there,  forlorn,  before  his  own  fire,  or  as  if  he 
had  come  back  unsuccessful  from  his  adventure  into 
the  next  world.  "  You  '11  stop  all  night,  of  course," 
said  the  young  man.  "  It 's  rough  traveling,  and  it 's 
getting  dark  now.  You  won't  think  of  going  home. 
I  put  up  your  horse.  I  suppose  you  want  to  have  a 
little  talk  about  business,  too."  It  was  hard  work  to 
say  this,  and  Susan's  eyes  snapped  and  grew  very 
black.  "  I  wonder  he  don't  ask  him  right  off  if  he 
can't  stop  here  himself,"  she  muttered,  and  Betsey 
thought  he  was  too  free-spoken  altogether.  Lysander 
was  evidently  touched  by  this  great  civility.  He  had 
expected  to  be  treated  dreadfully,  and  to  tell  the 
truth,  though  his  wife  had  started  him  off  early  in  the 
morning,  he  had  lingered  all  day  at  one  place  and 
another  along  the  road. 

It  grew  dark  very  soon,  and  Andrew  went  out  to 
bring  in  the  wood  for  the  night  and  to  do  his  usual 
work ;  and  after  a  while  he  came  in,  looking  pleas- 
anter  than  before,  which  made  Susan  crosser.  She 
was  an  honest  and  just  girl  according  to  her  lights, 
and  she  would  not  have  wished  her  lover  to  keep 
what  was  not  his,  but  it  was  her  way  to  make  every- 
body feel  that  it  was  injustice,  and  that  Andrew  was 
making  somebody  else  an  out-and-out  present  for  his 


78  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

conscience'  sake.  She  was  treating  poor  Lysander's 
attempts  at  conversation  with  lofty  disdain,  and  he 
grew  more  and  more  humble,  and  consequently  disa- 
greeable. He  felt  that  he  was  creeping  into  this 
good  luck  by  a  very  crooked  way,  and  it  did  not  be- 
hoove him  to  put  on  airs  and  march  in  upon  his  pos- 
sessions with  his  banners  flying  ;  and  though  he  said 
to  himself  over  and  over  that  the  law  makes  the  best 
will  after  all  ;  that  he  was  certainly  Stephen's  next 
of  kin  and  always  had  had  a  hard  time,  and  that  An- 
drew had  been  given  many  favors  by  somebody  who 
was  no  blood  relation,  yet  he  was  very  sorry  for  the 
young  fellow,  and  showed  his  sympathy  as  well  as  he 
knew  how. 

"  1  come  over  a  purpose  to  say  to  ye  that  I  mean 
to  do  what 's  right  about  this,"  he  said  at  last,  at  the 
end  of  a  long  and  awkward  pause.  "  I  've  asked  ad- 
vice, and  I  find  the  property  conies  to  me  by  the  law. 
But  I  know  Stephen  had  it  in  his  mind  to  give  you 
the  best  part  of  what  he  had,  and  I  want  to  do 
what  's  fair  and  right,  and  so  does  my  woman  and 
the  boys.  We  '11  leave  it  out  to  anybody  you  name, 
or  you  may  have  your  say,  or  we  '11  share  even.  I 
don't  want  to  have  no  trouble.  The  first  thing  I 
says  when  I  got  wind  of  it  was  I  never  'd  touch  a 
cent  by  claim  ;  but  when  I  come  to  think  it  over,  it 's 


ANDREWS  FORTUNE.  79 

come  bv  law,  and  our  folks  have  n't  laid  up  nothin*  to 
speak  of ;  it 's  been  so  we  could  n't.  My  sons  are 
smart,  stiddy  fellows,  and  I  'd  like  to  let  the  young- 
est one  have  some  schooling ;  he  always  took  to  his 
book.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  drag  on  'em,  when  it  gets 
so  I  can't  work.  I  want  ye  to  think  well  about  it, 
and  let  me  know.  I  won't  hurry  ye,  and  we  '11 
make  out  the  papers  all  square  whenever  you  say." 

"  Whining  old  thing !  "  said  Susan  to  herself  ;  and 
Betsey  left  her  chair  and  hurried  to  the  closet,  im- 
patiently, for  nothing  whatever,  and  gave  the  door  a 
little  slam  when  she  shut  it  again. 

Andrew  moved  a  little  in  his  chair.  "  No,  Mr. 
Dennett,"  said  he,  bravely.  "  I  could  n't  touch  a  cent 
unless  the  will  was  found.  If  I  had  ever  seen  it,  and 
knew  for  certain  what  was  in  it,  perhaps  I  should  act 
different ;  but  as  it  is  I  should  feel  as  if  I  was  living 
on  you,  and  I  should  n't  like  that.  The  law  gives 
you  the  property,  as  you  say,  and  I  hope  you  and 
your  folks  will  be  comfortable  here.  I  want  to  speak 
about  one  thing :  my  uncle  told  me  he  had  left  Bet- 
sey five  hundred  dollars ;  he  spoke  to  me  about  it 
several  times,  and  I  promised  I  would  see  to  it  when 
anything  happened  to  him.  He  said  he  wanted  to 
feel  she  would  be  comfortable  when  she  got  to  be 
old.  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  what  you  say, 
and  for  coming  right  over  and  talking  fair  and  kind." 


told  henelf  the*  that  he  talked  like  a  fool, 
she  always  JagaagJ  afterwards  that  he  did  speak 
a.  Susan  thought  her  lover  was  better 
he  used  to  be ;  she  really  admiied  him 
at  that  moment,  bat  her  heart  sank  within  her.  -  He 
:-  :."-  ::  _  --.  ~L  •  :  -  -,.  '.  :  ..-  -  -'.:.  -  .:"_  ... 

uneasy  sense  of  what  might  be  required  of  her  as  to 
B-nhie  ideas  in  years  to  roan.,  if  he  went  on  in  this 
way.  It  was  hard,  when  she  had  been  thmfei^g  they 
be  the  two  •••AM*,  yoong  people  in  town,  to 
ad  decided  to  "****»  them  ilmmi 
She  •iiihi d  him  to  go  to  law;  she 

•  toad  of  him.  bat  people  had  always 
he  had  no  torn  for  business,  and  she  had 
to  her  own  wits  to  make  the  farm  pay  welL 

*  had  talked  to  her  in  a  way  that  touched  her 
only  that  afternoon,  as  they  drove  over,  and 
toH  her  that  he  meant  to  be  somebody  for  her 
her  proud  of  him  yet :  and  she  had 
im  with  great  affection,  but  it  had 
too  cold  for  fore-making,  and  she  was  a 

-  ^ 


They   rpral  a  eolema   erening.      Old 
talked  a  great  deal  abort  the  weather  and  the  fikefi- 

them  he  fefl  adeep  and  snored;  and  later  Andrew 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  81 

walked  over  with  Susan  to  her  aunt's,  where  she 
was  going  to  spend  a  day  or  two,  as  often  happened. 
She  was  dreading  to  meet  her  relatives,  but  Andrew 
was  on  provokingly  good  terms  with  himself.  He 
told  Susan  that  she  was  everything  to  him,  and  he 
did  n't  care  about  losing  the  farm  so  long  as  he  had 
her ;  and  she  said  that  she  was  n't  half  good  enough 
for  him,  and  resolved  that  she  wouldn't  break  his 
heart  now,  for  he  was  a  well-meaning  fellow,  but 
before  spring  there  would  be  some  way  she  could  get 
out  of  it. 

The  short  winter  days  that  followed  were  dreary 
enough  to  the  hero  of  this  story.  His  comfortable 
life  had  always  seemed  a  certainty  to  him,  and  now 
new  cares  and  perplexities  had  fallen  heavily  upon 
him.  He  could  not  help  noticing  that  there  was  a 
change  in  the  manner  of  his  neighbors,  and  Betsey 
often  mentioned  that  she  could  not  imagine  how  her 
sister  got  on  without  her,  and  was  evidently  in  a 
hurry  to  settle  herself  in  her  new  home.  The  Den- 
netts had  asked  them  both  to  stay  until  spring  at  the 
farm,  when  they  meant  to  make  a  change,  and  it 
seemed  the  best  thing  to  do  ;  but  Andrew  kept  him- 
self busier  than  ever  before  in  his  life,  lest  he  might 
be  accused  of  idling  and  eating  another  man's  bread. 


82  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

He  undertook  to  keep  the  district  school  near  by, 
and  succeeded  tolerably  well,  and  it  was  a  great  sat- 
isfaction to  be  earning  something.  He  hunted  far 
and  near  for  some  employment,  until  he  was  dis- 
couraged. He  knew  that  Susan  would  despise  his 
hiring  out  on  a  farm  for  the  summer,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  else,  if  there  were  even  that. 
He  felt  very  forlorn,  and  sometimes  there  was  a 
chill  in  Susan's  sunshine,  which  was  the  saddest  thing 
of  all. 

One  day  late  in  January  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
write  to  Mr.  Dunning  and  ask  him  to  find  some  work 
for  him  in  Boston,  though  it  was  awful  to  think  of 
going  so  far  away.  Susan  brightened  when  he  spoke 
of  it,  and  when  a  letter  was  received  telling  him  to 
come  as  soon  as  possible  he  said  good-by  to  her  and 
went,  and  some  one  else  finished  the  town  school. 
He  often  smiled  in  after-years  to  think  of  the  misgiv- 
ings with  which  he  left  his  home,  and  the  tremen- 
dous distance  which  seemed  to  lie  between  it  and  the 
city  ;  it  was  almost  like  going  off  into  space.  The 
change  to  city  life  was  a  very  great  one,  and  at  first 
he  felt  as  a  small  boy  might  who  had  fastened  his 
sled  behind  a  railway  train.  However,  he  proved 
equal  to  the  place  for  which  Mr.  Dunning  had  rec- 
ommended him ;  his  steady,  painstaking  ways  found 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  83 

favor  with  his  employers,  while  he  lost  some  of  his 
natural  slowness  from  being  with  people  who  were 
always  in  a  hurry.  He  wrote  long  and  edifying  let- 
ters to  Susan,  and  confided  to  her  his  aims  and  hopes, 
and  his  certainty  that  she  would  like  the  city  as  much 
as  he  did.  She  replied  from  time  to  time,  but  she  had 
by  no  means  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer ;  and  when, 
one  day,  he  had  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about 
her,  and  wondering  gratefully  why  she  had  fallen 
in  love  with  him,  a  letter  came  to  say  that  she  had 
decided  that  they  must  part.  Her  father  and  mother 
would  not  consent  to  her  settling  so  far  away,  and 
she  hoped  they  would  always  be  friends ;  she  never 
had  been  good  enough  for  him.  —  which  was  not  hon- 
est, since  she  thought  herself  much  too  good.  It  was 
a  heavy  blow,  and  Andrew  was  miserable  for  some 
time.  The  loss  of  the  will  had  involved  this  loss 
also,  and  life  seemed  very  dismal. 

But  he  did  not  mourn  all  his  days,  as  at  first  he 
thought  he  should.  His  business  grew  very  interest- 
ing, and  he  set  his  heart  upon  making  a  fortune,  since 
other  people  had  done  it  without  any  more  hard  work 
than  he  was  willing  to  do ;  and  after  a  while  the 
news  reached  his  old  neighbors  that  his  employers 
thought  highly  of  him  and  would  soon  send  him  out 
to  China,  —  they  being  in  the  tea  business.  Then 


84  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

even  Mrs.  Beedle  said  she  always  knew  there  was  a 
good  deal  to  Andrew  Phillips,  and  now  folks  that  had 
laughed  at  him  were  going  to  see.  And  sure  enough, 
he  did  make  his  way  steadily  upward,  as  many  a 
country  boy  has  done  before  and  since.  He  changed 
little  in  reality  :  he  dressed  well,  and  behaved  him- 
self in  the  approved  fashion,  and  gained  a  good 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  his  manner,  which  had 
been  thought  awkward,  came  to  be  considered  good 
enough.  While  in  his  boyhood  he  had  been  called 
stupid  and  slow-moulded,  among  his  business  friends 
he  passed  for  a  reserved  and  discreet  and  cautious 
man.  He  never  was  very  attractive ;  his  associates 
found  no  fault  with  him,  for  his  life  was  honorable 
and  just,  but  he  did  not  make  many  personal  friends, 
though  he  was  so  much  respected.  You  might  have 
a  strong  feeling  of  attachment  for  him  after  you  had 
known  him  long,  but  that  was  all ;  he  was  not  a  per- 
son whom  one  could  be  enthusiastic  about.  His  was 
not  the  character  which  rouses  enthusiasm,  but  after 
his  own  fashion  he  made  a  success  of  life,  and  that 
cannot  always  be  said  of  men  who  are  more  popular 
with  their  fellows  and  more  gifted  by  nature  than  he. 
He  married,  after  a  while,  an  orphan  niece  of  one 
of  the  firm,  of  which  in  time  he  rose  to  be  a  partner 
himself,  and  everybody  thought  it  was  a  good  match 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  85 

for  both  of  them.  The  fair  Susan  was  never  thought 
of  with  a  sigh ;  it  is  oftener  in  love  stories  than  in 
real  life  that  such  wounds  of  the  heart  take  long  to 
heal.  The  world  seems  to  come  to  an  end,  and  then 
is  begun  anew  ;  after  people  marry,  their  earlier  lov- 
ers are  seldom  thought  of  with  regret,  however  dear 
they  were  in  their  day.  Andrew's  wife  was  a  far 
better  wife  for  him  than  Susan  ever  would  or  could 
have  been,  and  he  always  said  so  to  himself  when  he 
thought  of  the  matter  at  all.  They  had  a  pleasant 
house  and  a  pleasant  position  in  society,  and  our  hero 
often  smiled  to  think  of  his  misery  when  he  found 
that  his  uncle's  estates  were  not  to  be  his,  after  all. 
It  was  a  good  while  before  it  flashed  through  his 
mind,  one  day,  that  it  had  been  a  blessing  in  disguise. 
There  had  been  eight  thousand  dollars  beside  the 
farm ;  there  never  had  been  a  fortune  equal  to  it  in 
that  neighborhood  ;  but  his  own  possessions  already 
covered  it  over  and  over  again,  and  it  made  him  fairly 
wretched  to  think  how  small  and  narrow  his  life 
would  have  been  if  he  had  stayed  at  home  on  the 
farm,  how  much  he  should  have  missed,  and  how 
much  less  he  could  have  done  for  himself  and  for 
other  people.  He  said  more  than  once  that  it  had 
been  the  making  of  him,  and  that  the  hand  of  God 
had  plainly  shaped  his  course. 


86  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

After  a  good  many  years  he  went  back  to  his  na- 
tive place  ;  he  had  been  meaning  to  do  it  for  a  long 
time,  and  he  was  somehow  often  reminded  of  Mr. 
Dunning's  visit.  It  was  a  pleasant  week  in  late  sum- 
mer, and  the  old  town  was  little  changed  ;  only  there 
seemed  to  be  very  few  old  people  and  a  great  many 
younger  ones.  He  went  to  see  every  one  whom  he 
knew,  and  his  holidays  were  after  all  very  pleasant. 
He  called  upon  Susan,  and  found  her  old  and  homely 
and  complaining,  though  she  had  married  the  smart 
young  man  at  the  store,  and  had  been  as  fond  of  him 
as  it  was  her  nature  to  be  of  any  one.  It  was  odd  that 
he  was  awkward  and  lank  and  slow-moulded  now, 
while  Andrew  was  in  her  eyes  a  most  distinguished 
and  elegant  looking  man,  and  she  could  not  imagine 
how  she  ever  had  the  courage  to  dismiss  him.  "  You 
know  I  always  set  a  great  deal  by  you,  Mr.  Phillips," 
she  said,  with  a  look  that  made  her  a  little  like  the 
Susan  of  old.  He  seemed  a  part  of  her  triumphant 
youth,  and  it  brought  back  all  her  old  pride  and  am- 
bition. She  had  meant  to  be  somebody  and  had  failed, 
and  perhaps  she  never  exactly  understood  where  her 
mistake  had  been  until  then.  It  is  likely  that  from 
that  time  forward  she  occasionally  said  that  she  might 
have  been  riding  in  her  carriage. 

Andrew  stayed  at  the  Dennett  farm  ;  nothing  had 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  87 

ever  told  him  so  plainly  how  different  a  man  he  was 
from  what  he  might  have  been,  or  how  different  a  life 
he  led,  like  coming  back  to  the  old  house.  It  seemed 
very  strange  to  wake  up  in  the  morning  in  his  old 
room,  which  with  unwonted  sentiment  he  had  asked 
if  he  might  occupy.  Lysander  Dennett  had  not  lived 
long  to  enjoy  his  good  fortune,  but  it  had  been  a  great 
blessing  to  his  sons,  who  were  farmers  by  nature; 
and  now  one  lived  in  the  old  house,  and  the  other 
in  a  new  one  near  by,  and  they  worked  the  farm  to- 
gether, while  they  were,  by  reason  of  their  wealth, 
two  of  the  foremost  citizens,  and  one  of  them  had  even 
been  sent  to  the  legislature.  The  old  place  was  not 
altered  much.  Andrew  was  reminded  of  his  uncle  and 
of  his  own  boyhood  at  every  step,  and  he  offered  to 
buy  one  or  two  old  pieces  of  furniture,  which  were 
gladly  given  to  him  when  he  was  found  to  be  attached 
to  them  ;  and,  since  they  were  brass-mounted  and 
claw-footed,  his  wife  welcomed  them  with  joy,  and 
thought  his  pilgrimage  to  his  native  place  had  not 
been  in  vain.  There  was  a  son  of  Jonas  Dennett's  at 
the  farm  who  reminded  him  of  himself  in  his  youth, 
and  he  made  friends  in  a  grave  way  with  the  boy, 
and  said  to  himself  that  in  a  year  or  two  he  would 
give  him  a  start  in  the  world. 

It  happened  the  day  before  he  ended  his  visit  was 


88  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

a  rainy  day,  and  he  was  shut  up  in  the  house,  though 
between  two  showers  in  the  morning  he  had  gone 
over  to  pay  a  last  call  on  Mrs.  Beedle,  who  was  stiil 
living,  grown  shorter  and  stouter  than  ever,  until  her 
little  head  and  broad  round  shoulders  made  her  look 
like  a  June  bug.  She  took  great  pride  in  Mr.  Phil- 
lips, who,  indeed,  had  been  kind  to  her  in  many  ways, 
as  well  as  to  Betsey  Morris,  who  had  died  not  long 
before. 

After  he  had  come  back  he  was  at  his  wits'  end 
what  to  do.  Jonas  Dennett  was  away  and  the  women 
were  busy,  and  at  last  he  asked  if  there  were  not  an 
old  family  Bible  somewhere  in  the  house,  and  was  di- 
rected to  the  best  room,  —  stiff  and  dismal  as  ever,  — 
where  it  was  taken  down  from  the  chimney  cupboard, 
as  the  Bible  belonging  to  the  Lysander  Dennett 
branch  was  occupying  the  post  of  honor  on  the  little 
table  in  the  corner.  Andrew  caught  sight  of  some 
other  ancient-looking  volumes,  and  he  mounted  the 
chair  himself,  reaching  in  at  arm's-length  and  taking 
out  one  old  brown  book  after  another.  There  was 
nothing  very  interesting ;  they  were  mostly  like  Law's 
Serious  Call  and  the  Rise  and  Progress,  and  some 
volumes  of  old  sermons  by  New  England  divines. 
The  last  book  was  a  great  volume  of  Towusend's 
Arrangement  of  the  Old  Testament.  It  was  almost 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  89 

as  large  as  the  Bible  itself,  and  as  he  took  it  out  it 
slipped  from  his  hand  and  fell  to  the  floor.  One  of 
the  Dennett  children,  who  stood  by,  stooped  to  pick 
it  up,  and  as  Andrew  came  down  from  the  chair,  dusty 
and  disappointed  in  his  search,  she  gave  it  to  him. 
There  was  a  paper  half  out  between  the  leaves,  which 
the  fall  had  dislodged,  and  he  pulled  it  out  to  replace 
it  more  carefully,  thinking  of  something  else  all  the 
time ;  but  a  strange  feeling  rushed  over  him  at  the 
sight  of  it,  and  he  sat  down,  still  holding  the  big  book 
and  the  paper,  and,  to  the  little  girl's  surprise,  he  grew 
very  red  in  the  face. 

It  was  strange  that  after  so  many  years  he  should 
have  been  the  one  to  find  the  missing  will.  It  was 
carefully  written  in  his  uncle's  stiff,  precise  hand,  and 
the  farm  and  all  the  money,  with  the  exception  of 
Betsey  Morris's  legacy,  and  one  to  the  young  Den- 
netts, and  some  smaller  ones  to  the  church  and  the 
old  minister,  were  left  to  his  adopted  son. 

And  now  Andrew  was  the  rightful  heir  when  he 
did  not  wish  to  be,  and  he  was  anything  but  happy. 
He  remembered  the  book,  and  that  he  looked  in  it 
himself ;  it  used  to  be  on  a  table  in  that  same  room, 
and  poor  old  Mrs.  Towrier  had  carefully  replaced  the 
paper  in  the  Bible,  as  she  thought,  for  this  book  was 
not  unlike  it  to  her  half-blind  eyes.  Soon  after  the 


90  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

funeral  Betsey  had  put  the  room  severely  to  rights, 
and  had  stored  the  books  away  in  the  chimney  cup- 
board, where  they  had  been  ever  since.  He  could 
not  imagine  how  he  and  the  other  people  who  had 
searched  had  overlooked  this  paper ;  it  must  have 
been  fastened  between  two  leaves  and  hidden  some- 
how. Indeed,  it  had  always  been  a  puzzle  to  him 
why  the  will  should  have  been  in  the  Bible  at  all  ;  it 
was  not  like  his  uncle  to  put  it  there  ;  but  after  all  it 
is  only  people  in  real  life  who  do  uncharacteristic 
things.  Andrew  went  out  to  the  barn  and  sat  there 
alone  for  a  while,  listening  to  the  rain  on  the  shingles 
overhead  and  wondering  what  he  should  do.  He  had 
a  great  affection  for  the  old  place,  and  he  would  have 
liked  to  think  it  was  his,  as  his  uncle  wished  it  to  be. 
It  cost  a  good  deal  of  effort  to  give  it  up  ;  but  he 
knew  that  his  wife  would  find  it  very  dull  for  even  a 
little  while  in  the  summer,  and  it  was  too  far  from  the 
city  for  him  to  think  of  spending  much  time  there. 
It  would  give  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  too.  And 
Jonas  and  Tim  Dennett  would  be  thrown  out  of  their 
homes  ;  they  were  worth  five  or  six  thousand  dollars 
apiece  and  their  farm  now,  but  they  would  have  to  be- 
gin life  all  over  again,  —  they  and  their  wives  and 
children.  He  was  a  rich  man  himself  and  only  a  little 
past  middle  age,  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 


ANDREW'S  FORTUNE.  91 

he  would  not  claim  the  property  that  his  uncle  had 
given  him. 

And  when  he  went  into  the  house  he  stood  for  a 
minute  in  the  kitchen  warming  his  hands  a  little  over 
the  stove,  which  to  his  sorrow  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  old  fire-place  ;  while  nobody  was  looking  he 
tucked  a  folded  paper  in  at  the  draught,  and  saw  it 
light  quickly  and  burn,  and  the  old  wafer  spluttered 
a  little,  while  he  felt  very  solemn,  and  seemed  to  his 
hostess  all  day  to  have  something  on  his  mind.  He 
had  a  feeling  of  regret  about  it  from  time  to  time,  and 
he  thought  sometimes  that  it  would  have  been  just  as 
well  to  let  them  know  how  generous  he  had  been. 
But  he  always  told  himself,  whenever  he  thought  of 
the  will  afterward,  that  it  was  the  best  thing  for  him 
to  do. 

So  he  lost  his  fortune  when  he  wanted  it,  and  found 
it  was  his  when  he  would  not  take  it ;  but  he  thought 
of  the  old  place  more  and  more  as  he  grew  older,  and 
Jonas  Dennett's  boy  came  to  the  city  that  next  spring. 


AN  OCTOBER  BIDE. 


was  a  fine  afternoon,  just  warm  enough 
and  just  cool  enough,  and  I  started  off  alone 
on  horseback,  though  I  do  not  know  why  I 
should  say  alone  when  I  find  my  horse  such  good 
company.  She  is  called  Sheila,  and  she  not  only 
gratifies  one's  sense  of  beauty,  but  is  very  interesting 
in  her  character,  while  her  usefulness  in  this  world 
is  beyond  question.  I  grow  more  fond  of  her  every 
week ;  we  have  had  so  many  capital  good  times  to- 
gether, and  I  am  certain  that  she  is  as  much  pleased 
as  I  when  we  start  out  for  a  run. 

I  do  not  say  to  every  one  that  I  always  pronounce 
her  name  in  German  fashion  because  she  occasion- 
ally shies,  but  that  is  the  truth.  I  do  not  mind  her 
shying,  or  a  certain  mysterious  and  apparently  un- 
provoked jump,  with  which  she  sometimes  indulges 
herself,  and  no  one  else  rides  her,  so  I  think  she  does 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  93 

no  harm,  but  I  do  not  like  the  principle  of  allowing 
her  to  be  wicked,  unrebuked  and  unhindered,  and 
some  day  I  shall  give  my  mind  to  admonishing  this 
four-footed  Princess  of  Thule,  who  seems  at  present 
to  consider  herself  at  the  top  of  royalty  in  this  king- 
dom or  any  other.  I  believe  I  should  not  like  her 
half  so  well  if  she  were  tamer  and  entirely  and  stu- 
pidly reliable ;  I  glory  in  her  good  spirits  and  I  think 
she  has  a  right  to  be  proud  and  willful  if  she  chooses. 
I  am  proud  myself  of  her  quick  eye  and  ear,  her  sure 
foot,  and  her  slender,  handsome  chestnut  head.  I 
look  at  her  points  of  high  breeding  with  admiration, 
and  I  thank  her  heartily  for  all  the  pleasure  she  has 
given  me,  and  for  what  I  am  sure  is  a  steadfast 
friendship  between  us,  —  and  a  mutual  understanding 
that  rarely  knows  a  disappointment  or  a  mistake. 
She  is  careful  when  I  come  home  late  through  the 
shadowy,  twilighted  woods,  and  I  can  hardly  see  my 
way  ;  she  forgets  then  all  her  little  tricks  and  capers, 
and  is  as  steady  as  a  clock  with  her  tramp,  tramp, 
over  the  rough,  dark  country  roads.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  suddenly  grown  a  pair  of  wings  when  she  fairly 
flies  over  the  ground  and  the  wind  whistles  in  my 
ears.  There  never  was  a  time  when  she  could  not 
go  a  little  faster,  but  she  is  willing  to  go  step  by  step 
through  the  close  woods,  pushing  her  way  through 


94  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

the  branches,  and  stopping  considerately  when  a 
bough  that  will  not  bend  tries  to  pull  me  off  the  sad- 
dle. And  she  never  goes  away  and  leaves  me  when 
I  dismount  to  get  some  flowers  or  a  drink  of  spring 
water,  though  sometimes  she  thinks  what  fun  it  would 
be.  I  cannot  speak  of  all  her  virtues  for  I  have  not 
learned  them  yet.  We  are  still  new  friends,  for  I 
have  only  ridden  her  two  years  and  I  feel  all  the 
fascination  of  the  first  meeting  every  time  I  go  out 
with  her,  she  is  so  unexpected  in  her  ways ;  so  amus- 
ing, so  sensible,  so  brave,  and  in  every  way  so  de- 
lightful a  horse. 

It  was  in  October,  and  it  was  a  fine  day  to  look 
at,  though  some  of  the  great  clouds  that  sailed 
through  the  sky  were  a  little  too  heavy -looking  to 
promise  good  weather  on  the  morrow,  and  over  in 
the  west  (where  the  wind  was  coming  from)  they 
were  packed  close  together  and  looked  gray  and  wet. 
It  might  be  cold  and  cloudy  later,  but  that  would  not 
hinder  my  ride ;  it  is  a  capital  way  to  keep  warm,  to 
come  along  a  smooth  bit  of  road  on  the  run,  and  I 
should  have  time  at  any  rate  to  go  the  way  I  wished, 
so  Sheila  trotted  quickly  through  the  gate  and  out 
of  the  village.  There  was  a  flicker  of  color  left  on 
the  oaks  and  maples,  and  though  it  was  not  Indian- 
summer  weather  it  was  first  cousin  to  it.  I  took  off 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  95 

my  cap  to  let  the  wind  blow  through  my  hair  ;  I  had 
half  a  mind  to  go  down  to  the  sea,  but  it  was  too 
late  for  that ;  there  was  no  moon  to  light  me  home. 
Sheila  took  the  strip  of  smooth  turf  just  at  the  side 
of  the  road  for  her  own  highway,  she  tossed  her 
head  again  and  again  until  I  had  my  hand  full  of  her 
thin,  silky  mane,  and  she  gave  quick  pulls  at  her  bit 
and  hurried  little  jumps  ahead  as  if  she  expected  me 
already  to  pull  the  reins  tight  and  steady  her  for  a 
hard  gallop.  I  patted  her  and  whistled  at  her,  I  was 
so  glad  to  see  her  again  and  to  be  out  riding,  and  I 
gave  her  part  of  her  reward  to  begin  with,  because 
I  knew  she  would  earn  it,  and  then  we  were  on  bet- 
ter terms  than  ever.  She  has  such  a  pretty  way  of 
turning  her  head  to  take  the  square  lump  of  sugar, 
and  she  never  bit  my  fingers  or  dropped  the  sugar  in 
her  life. 

Down  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town  on  the  edge 
of  York,  there  is  a  long  tract  of  woodland,  covering 
what  is  called  the  Rocky  Hills  ;  rough,  high  land, 
that  stretches  along  from  beyond  Agamenticus,  near 
the  sea,  to  the  upper  part  of  Eliot,  near  the  Piscat- 
aqua  River.  Standing  on  Agamenticus,  the  woods 
seem  to  cover  nearly  the  whole  of  the  country  as  far 
as  one  can  see,  and  there  is  hardly  a  clearing  to  break 
this  long  reach  of  forest  of  which  I  speak ;  there 


96  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

must  be  twenty  miles  of  it  in  an  almost  unbroken 
line.  The  roads  cross  it  here  and  there,  and  one  can 
sometimes  see  small  and  lonely  farms  hiding  away 
in  the  heart  of  it.  The  trees  are  for  the  most  part 
young  growth  of  oak  or  pine,  though  I  could  show 
you  yet  many  a  noble  company  of  great  pines  that 
once  would  have  been  marked  with  the  king's  arrow, 
and  many  a  royal  old  oak  which  has  been  overlooked 
in  the  search  for  ships'  knees  and  plank  for  the  navy 
yard,  and  piles  for  the  always  shaky,  up-hill  and 
down,  pleasant  old  Portsmouth  bridge.  The  part  of 
these  woods  which  I  know  best  lies  on  either  side 
the  already  old  new  road  to  York  on  the  Rocky 
Hills,  and  here.  I  often  ride,  or  even  take  perilous 
rough  drives  through  the  cart-paths,  the  wood  roads 
which  are  busy  thoroughfares  in  the  winter,  and  are 
silent  and  shady,  narrowed  by  green  branches  and 
carpeted  with  slender  brakes,  and  seldom  traveled 
over,  except  by  me,  all  summer  long. 

It  was  a  great  surprise,  or  a  succession  of  surprises, 
one  summer,  when  I  found  that  every  one  of  the  old 
uneven  tracks  led  to  or  at  least  led  by  what  had  once 
been  a  clearing,  and  in  old  days  must  have  been  the 
secluded  home  of  some  of  the  earliest  adventurous 
farmers  of  this  region.  It  must  have  taken  great 
courage,  I  think,  to  strike  the  fir.st  blow  of  one's  axe 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  97 

here  in  the  woods,  and  it  must  have  been  a  brave  cer- 
tainty of  one's  perseverance  that  looked  forward  to 
the  smooth  field  which  was  to  succeed  the  unfruitful 
wilderness.  The  farms  were  far  enough  apart  to  be 
very  lonely,  and  I  suppose  at  first  the  cry  of  fierce 
wild  creatures  in  the  forest  was  an  every-day  sound, 
and  the  Indians  stole  like  snakes  through  the  bushes 
and  crept  from  tree  to  tree  about  the  houses  watch- 
ing, begging,  and  plundering,  over  and  over  again. 
There  are  some  of  these  farms  still  occupied,  where 
the  land  seems  to  have  become  thoroughly  civilized, 
but  most  of  them  were  deserted  long  ago ;  the  people 
gave  up  the  fight  with  such  a  persistent  willfulness  and 
wildness  of  nature  and  went  away  to  the  village,  or  to 
find  more  tractable  soil  and  kindlier  neighborhoods. 

I  do  not  know  why  it  is  these  silent,  forgotten 
places  are  so  delightful  to  me ;  there  is  one  which  I 
always  call  my  farm,  and  it  was  a  long  time  after  I 
knew  it  well  before  I  could  find  out  to  whom  it  had 
once  belonged.  In  some  strange  way  the  place  has 
become  a  part  of  my  world  and  to  belong  to  my 
thoughts  and  my  life. 

I  suppose  every  one  can  say,  "  I  have  a  little  king- 
dom where  I  give  laws."  Each  of  us  has  truly  a  king- 
dom in  thought,  and  a  certain  spiritual  possession. 
There  are  some  gardens  of  mine  where  somebody 


98  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

plants  the  seeds  and  pulls  the  weeds  for  me  every 
year  without  my  ever  taking  a  bit  of  trouble.  I  have 
trees  and  fields  and  woods  and  seas  and  houses,  I  own* 
a  great  deal  of  the  world  to  think  and  plan  and  dream 
about.  The  picture  belongs  most  to  the  man  who 
loves  it  best  and  sees  entirely  its  meaning.  We  can 
always  have  just  as  much  as  we  can  take  of  things, 
and  we  can  lay  up  as  much  treasure  as  we  please  in 
the  higher  world  of  thought  that  can  never  be  spoiled 
or  hindered  by  moth  or  rust,  as  lower  and  meaner 
wealth  can  be. 

As  for  this  farm  of  mine,  I  found  it  one  day  when 
I  was  coming  through  the  woods  on  horseback  trying 
to  strike  a  shorter  way  out  into  the  main  road.  I 
was  pushing  through  some  thick  underbrush,  and 
looking  ahead  I  noticed  a  good  deal  of  clear  sky  as 
if  there  were  an  open  place  just  beyond,  and  pres- 
ently I  found  myself  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing.  There 
was  a  straggling  orchard  of  old  apple-trees,  the  grass 
about  them  was  close  and  short  like  the  wide  door- 
yard  of  an  old  farm-house  and  into  this  cleared  space 
the  little  pines  were  growing  on  every  side.  The 
old  pines  stood  a  little  way  back  watching  their  chil- 
dren march  in  upon  their  inheritance,  as  if  they  were 
ready  to  interfere  and  protect  and  defend,  if  any 


AN.  OCTOBER  RIDE.  99 

trouble  came.  I  could  see  that  it  would  not  be  many 
years,  if  they  were  left  alone,  before  the  green  grass 
would  be  covered,  and  the  old  apple-trees  would  grow 
mossy  and  die  for  lack  of  room  and  sunlight  in  the 
midst  of  the  young  woods.  It  was  a  perfect  acre  of 
turf,  only  here  and  there  I  could  already  see  a  cush- 
ion of  juniper,  or  a  tuft  of  sweet  fern  or  bay  berry. 
I  walked  the  horse  about  slowly,  picking  a  hard  little 
yellow  apple  here  and  there  from  the  boughs  over 
my  head,  and  at  last  I  found  a  cellar  all  grown  over 
with  grass,  with  not  even  a  bit  of  a  crumbling  brick 
to  be  seen  in  the  hollow  of  it.  No  doubt  there  were 
some  underground.  It  was  a  very  large  cellar,  twice 
as  large  as  any  T  had  ever  found  before  in  any  of 
these  deserted  places,  in  the  woods  or  out.  And  that 
told  me  at  once  that  there  had  been  a  large  house 
above  it,  an  unusual  house  for  those  old  days  ;  the 
family  was  either  a  large  one,  or  it  had  made  for  itself 
more  than  a  merely  sufficient  covering  and  shelter, 
with  no  inch  of  unnecessary  room.  I  knew  I  was  on 
very  high  land,  but  the  trees  were  so  tall  and  close 
that  I  could  not  see  beyond  them.  The  wind  blew 
over  pleasantly  and  it  was  a  curiously  protected  and 
hidden  place,  sheltered  and  quiet,  with  its  one  small 
crop  of  cider  apples  dropping  ungathered  to  the  ground, 
and  unharvested  there,  except  by  hurrying  black  ants 
and  sticky,  witless  little  snails. 


100  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

I  suppose  my  feeling  toward  this  place  was  like 
that  about  a  ruin,  only  this  seemed  older  than  a  ruin. 
I  could  not  hear  my  horse's  foot-falls,  and  an  apple 
startled  me  when  it  fell  with  a  soft  thud,  and  I 
watched  it  roll  a  foot  or  two  and  then  stop,  as  if  it 
knew  it  never  would  have  anything  more  to  do  in 
the  world.  I  remembered  the  Enchanted  Palace  and 
the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the  Wood,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
I  were  on  the  way  to  it,  and  this  was  a  corner  of 
that  palace  garden.  The  horse  listened  and  stood 
still,  without  a  bit  of  restlessness,  and  when  we  heard 
the  far  cry  of  a  bird  she  looked  round  at  me,  as  if 
she  wished  me  to  notice  that  we  were  not  alone  in 
the  world,  after  all.  It  was  strange,  to  be  sure,  that 
people  had  lived  there,  and  had  had  a  home  where 
they  were  busy,  and  where  the  fortunes  of  life  had 
found  them  ;  that  they  had  followed  out  the  law  of 
existence  in  its  succession  of  growth  and  flourishing 
and  failure  and  decay,  within  that  steadily  narrowing 
circle  of  trees. 

The  relationship  of  untamed  nature  to  what  is 
tamed  and  cultivated  is  a  very  curious  and  subtle 
thing  to  me  ;  I  do  not  know  if  every  one  feels  it  so 
intensely.  In  the  darkness  of  an  early  autumn  even- 
ing I  sometimes  find  myself  whistling  a  queer  tune 
that  chimes  in  with  the  crickets'  piping  and  the  cries 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  101 

of  the  little  creatures  around  me  in  the  garden.  I 
have  no  thought  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  wonder 
what  I  am  ;  there  is  a  strange  self-consciousness,  but 
I  am  only  a  part  of  one  great  existence  which  is 
called  nature.  The  life  in  me  is  a  bit  of  all  life,  and 
where  I  am  happiest  is  where  I  find  that  which  is 
next  of  kin  to  me,  in  friends,  or  trees,  or  hills,  or  seas, 
or  beside  a  flower,  when  I  turn  back  more  than  once 
to  look  into  its  face. 

The  world  goes  on  year  after  year.  We  can  use  its 
forces,  and  shape  and  mould  them,  and  perfect  this 
thing  or  that,  but  we  cannot  make  new  forces ;  we 
only  use  the  tools  we  find  to  carve  the  wood  we  find. 
There  is  nothing  new  ;  we  discover  and  combine  and 
use.  Here  is  the  wild  fruit,  —  the  same  fruit  at  heart 
as  that  with  which  the  gardener  wins  his  prize.  The 
world  is  the  same  world.  You  find  a  diamond,  but 
the  diamond  was  there  a  thousand  years  ago  ;  you  did 
not  make  it  by  finding  it.  We  grow  spiritually,  un- 
til we  grasp  some  new  great  truth  of  God ;  but  it  was 
always  true,  and  waited  for  us  until  we  came.  What 
is  there  new  and  strange  in  the  world  except  our- 
selves !  Our  thoughts  are  our  own  ;  God  gives  our 
life  to  us  moment  by  moment,  but  He  gives  it  to  be 
our  own. 

"  Ye  on  your  harps  must  lean  to  hear 
A  secret  chord  that  mine  will  bear." 


102  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

As  I  looked  about  me  that  day  I  saw  the  differ- 
ence that  men  had  made  slowly  fading  out  of  sight. 
It  was  like  a  dam  in  a  river  ;  when  it  is  once  swept 
away  the  river  goes  on  the  same  as  before.  The  old 
patient,  sublime  forces  were  there  at  work  in  their 
appointed  way,  but  perhaps  by  and  by,  when  the  ap- 
ple-trees are  gone  and  the  cellar  is  only  a  rough  hol- 
low in  the  woods,  some  one  will  again  set  aside  these 
forces  that  have  worked  unhindered,  and  will  bring 
this  corner  of  the  world  into  a  new  use  and  shape. 
What  if  we  could  stop  or  change  forever  the  work- 
ing of  these  powers !  But  Nature  repossesses  herself 
surely  of  what  we  boldly  claim.  The  pyramids  stand 
yet,  it  happens,  but  where  are  all  those  cities  that 
used  also  to  stand  in  old  Egypt,  proud  and  strong, 
and  dating  back  beyond  men's  memories  or  tradi- 
tions, —  turned  into  sand  again  and  dust  that  is  like 
all  the  rest  of  the  desert,  and  blows  about  in  the 
wind  ?  Yet  there  cannot  be  such  a  thing  as  life  that 
is  lost.  The  tree  falls  and  decays,  in  the  dampness  of 
the  woods,  and  is  part  of  the  earth  under  foot,  but  an- 
other tree  is  growing  out  of  it ;  perhaps  it  is  part  of 
its  own  life  that  is  springing  again  from  the  part  of 
it  that  died.  God  must  always  be  putting  again  to 
some  use  the  life  that  is  withdrawn  ;  it  must  live, 
because  it  is  Life.  There  can  be  no  confusion  to 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  103 

God  in  this  wonderful  world,  the  new  birth  of  the 
immortal,  the  new  forms  of  the  life  that  is  from  ever- 
lasting to  everlasting,  or  the  new  way  in  which  it 
comes.  But  it  is  only  God  who  can  plan  and  order 
it  all,  —  who  is  a  father  to  his  children,  and  cares  for 
the  least  of  us.  I  thought  of  his  unbroken  prom- 
ises ;  the  people  who  lived  and  died  in  that  lonely 
place  knew  Him,  and  the  chain  of  events  was  fitted 
to  their  thoughts  and  lives,  for  their  development 
and  education.  The  world  was  made  for  them,  and 
God  keeps  them  yet ;  somewhere  in  his  kingdom 
they  are  in  their  places,  —  they  are  not  lost ;  while 
the  trees  they  left  grow  older,  and  the  young  trees 
spring  up,  and  the  fields  they  cleared  are  being  cov- 
ered over  and  turned  into  wild  land  again. 

I  had  visited  this  farm  of  mine  many  times  since 
that  first  day,  but  since  the  last  time  I  had  been 
there  I  had  found  out,  luckily,  something  about  its 
last  tenant.  An  old  lady  whom  I  knew  in  the  vil- 
lage had  told  me  that  when  she  was  a  child  she  re- 
membered another  very  old  woman,  who  used  to  live 
here  all  alone,  far  from  any  neighbors,  and  that  one 
afternoon  she  had  come  with  her  mother  to  see  her. 
She  remembered  the  house  very  well  ;  it  was  larger 
and  better  than  most  houses  in  the  region.  Its  owner 


104  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

was  the  last  of  her  family ;  but  why  she  lived  alone, 
or  what  became  of  her  at  last,  or  of  her  money  or 
her  goods,  or  who  were  her  relatives  in  the  town,  my 
friend  did  not  know.  She  was  a  thrifty,  well-to-do  old 
soul,  a  famous  weaver  and  spinner,  and  she  used  to 
come  to  the  meeting-house  at  the  Old  Fields  every 
Sunday,  and  sit  by  herself  in  a  square  pew.  Since  I 
knew  this,  the  last  owner  of  my  farm  has  become 
very  real  to  me,  and  I  thought  of  her  that  day  a  great 
deal,  and  could  almost  see  her  as  she  sat  alone  on  her 
doorstep  in  the  twilight  of  a  summer  evening,  when 
the  thrushes  were  calling  in  the  woods;  or  going 
down  the  hills  to  church,  dressed  in  quaint  fashion, 
with  a  little  sadness  in  her  face  as  she  thought  of 
her  lost  companions  and  how  she  did  not  use  to  go 
to  church  alone.  And  I  pictured  her  funeral  to  my- 
self, and  watched  her  carried  away  at  last  by  the 
narrow  road  that  wound  among  the  trees  ;  and  there 
was  nobody  left  in  the  house  after  the  neighbors 
from  the  nearest  farms  had  put  it  to  rights,  and  had 
looked  over  her  treasures  to  their  hearts'  content. 
She  must  have  been  a  fearless  woman,  and  one  could 
not  stay  in  such  a  place  as  this,  year  in  and  year 
out,  through  the  long  days  of  summer  and  the  long 
nights  of  winter,  unless  she  found  herself  good  com- 
pany. 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  105 

I  do  not  think  I  could  find  a  worse  avenue  than 
that  which  leads  to  my  farm,  I  think  sometimes  there 
must  have  been  an  easier  way  out  which  I  have  yet 
failed  to  discover,  but  it  has  its  advantages,  for  the 
trees  are  beautiful  and  stand  close  together,  and  I  do 
not  know  such  iireen  brakes  anvwhere  as  those  which 

^  » 

grow  in  the  shadiest  places.  I  came  into  a  well- 
trodden  track  after  a  while,  which  led  into  a  small 
granite  quarry,  and  then  I  could  go  faster,  and  at  last 
I  reached  a  pasture  wall  which  was  quickly  left  be- 
hind and  I  was  only  a  little  way  from  the  main  road. 
There  were  a  few  young  cattle  scattered  about  in  the 
pasture,  and  some  of  them  which  were  lying  down 
got  up  in  a  hurry  and  stared  at  me  suspiciously  as  I 
rode  along.  It  was  very  uneven  ground,  and  I  passed 
some  stiff,  straight  mullein  stalks  which  stood  apart 
together  in  a  hollow  as  if  they  wished  to  be  alone. 
They  always  remind  me  of  the  rigid  old  Scotch  Cov- 
enanters, who  used  to  gather  themselves  together  in 
companies,  against  the  law,  to  worship  God  in  some 
secret  hollow  of  the  bleak  hill-side.  Even  the  small- 
est and  youngest  of  the  mulleins  was  a  Covenanter  at 
heart ;  they  had  all  put  by  their  yellow  flowers,  and 
they  will  stand  there,  gray  and  unbending,  through  the 
fall  rains  and  winter  snows,  to  keep  their  places  and 
praise  God  in  their  own  fashion,  and  they  take  great 


106  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

credit  to  themselves  for  doing  it,  I  have  no  doubt, 
and  think  it  is  far  better  to  be  a  stern  and  respecta- 
ble mullein  than  a  straying,  idle  clematis,  that  clings 
and  wanders,  and  cannot  bear  wet  weather.  I  saw 
members  of  the  congregation  scattered  through  the 
pasture  and  felt  like  telling  them  to  hurry,  for  the 
long  sermon  had  already  begun  !  But  one  ancient 
worthy,  very  late  on  his  way  to  the  meeting,  hap- 
pened to  stand  in  our  way,  and  Sheila  bit  his  dry 
head  off,  which  was  a  great  pity. 

After  I  was  once  on  the  high  road  it  was  not  long 
before  I  found  myself  in  another  part  of  the  town 
altogether.  It  is  great  fun  to  ride  about  the  country ; 
one  rouses  a  great  deal  of  interest ;  there  seems  to 
be  something  exciting  in  the  sight  of  a  girl  on  horse- 
back, and  people  who  pass  you  in  wagons  turn  to 
look  after  you,  though  they  never  would  take  the 
trouble  if  you  were  only  walking.  The  country 
horses  shy  if  you  go  by  them  fast,  and  sometimes 
you  stop  to  apologize.  The  boys  will  leave  anything 
to  come  and  throw  a  stone  at  your  horse.  I  think 
Sheila  would  like  to  bite  a  boy.  though  sometimes 
she  goes  through  her  best  paces  when  she  hears  them 
hooting,  as  if  she  thought  they  were  admiring  her, 
which  I  never  allow  myself  to  doubt.  It  is  consid- 
ered a  much  greater  compliment  if  you  make  a  call 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  107 

on  horseback  than  if  you  came  afoot,  but  carriage 
people  are  nothing  in  the  country  to  what  they  are 
in  the  city. 

I  was  on  a  good  road  and  Sheila  was  trotting 
steadily,  and  I  did  not  look  at  the  western  sky  be- 
hind me  until  I  suddenly  noticed  that  the  air  had 
grown  colder  and  the  sun  had  been  for  a  long  time 
behind  a  cloud  ;  then  I  found  there  was  going  to  be 
a  shower,  in  a  very  little  while,  too.  I  was  in  a 
thinly  settled  part  of  the  town,  and  at  first  I  could 
not  think  of  any  shelter,  until  I  remembered  that  not 
very  far  distant  there  was  an  old  house,  with  a  long, 
sloping  roof,  which  had  formerly  been  the  parsonage 
of  the  north  parish  ;  there  had  once  been  a  church 
near  by,  to  which  most  of  the  people  came  who  lived 
in  this  upper  part  of  the  town.  It  had  been  for 
many  years  the  house  of  an  old  minister,  of  wide- 
spread fame  in  his  day  ;  I  had  always  heard  of  him 
from  the  elderly  people,  and  I  had  often  thought  I 
should  like  to  go  into  his  house,  and  had  looked  at  it 
with  great  interest,  but  until  within  a  year  or  two 
there  had  been  people  living  there.  I  had  even  list- 
ened with  pleasure  to  a  story  of  its  being  haunted, 
and  this  was  a  capital  chance  to  take  a  look  at  the 
old  place,  so  I  hurried  toward  it. 

As  I  went  in  at  the  broken  gate  it  seemed  to  me 


108  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

as  if  the  house  might  have  been  shut  up  and  left  to 
itself  fifty  years  before,  when  the  minister  died,  so 
soon  the  grass  grows  up  after  men's  footsteps  have 
worn  it  down,  and  the  traces  are  lost  of  the  daily 
touch  and  care  of  their  hands.  The  home  lot  was 
evidently  part  of  a  pasture,  and  the  sheep  had  nib- 
bled close  to  the  door-step,  while  tags  of  their  long, 
spring  wool,  washed  clean  by  summer-  rains,  were 
caught  in  the  rose-bushes  near  by. 

It  had  been  a  very  good  house  in  its  day,  and  had 
a  dignity  of  its  own,  holding  its  gray  head  high,  as 
if  it  knew  itself  to  be  not  merely  a  farm-house,  but 
a  Parsonage.  The  roof  looked  as  if  the  next  win- 
ter's weight  of  snow  might  break  it  in,  and  the  win- 
dow panes  had  been  loosened  so  much  in  their  shak- 
ing frames  that  many  of  them  had  fallen  out  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house,  and  were  lying  on  the  long 
grass  underneath,  blurred  and  thin  but  still  unbroken. 
That  was  the  last  letter  of  the  house's  death  warrant, 
for  now  the  rain  could  get  in,  and  the  crumbling  tim- 
bers must  loose  their  hold  of  each  other  quickly.  I 
had  found  a  dry  corner  of  the  old  shed  for  the  horse 
and  left  her  there,  looking  most  ruefully  over  her 
shoulder  after  me  as  I  hurried  away,  for  the  rain 
had  already  begun  to  spatter  down  in  earnest.  I 
was  not  sorry  when  I  found  that  somebody  had 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  109 

broken  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  sidelight  of  the  front 
door,  near  the  latch,  and  I  was  very  pleased  when  I 
found  that  by  reaching  through  I  could  unfasten  a 
great  bolt  and  let  myself  in,  as  perhaps  some  tramp 
in  search  of  shelter  had  done  before  me.  However, 
I  gave  the  blackened  brass  knocker  a  ceremonious 
rap  or  two,  and  I  could  have  told  by  the  sound  of  it, 
if  in  no  other  way,  that  there  was  nobody  at  home. 
I  looked  up  to  see  a  robin's  nest  on  the  cornice 
overhead,  and  I  had  to  push  away  the  lilacs  and  a 
withered  hop  vine  which  were  both  trying  to  cover 
up  the  door. 

It  gives  one  a  strange  feeling,  I  think,  to  go  into 
an  empty  house  so  old  as  this.  It  was  so  still  there 
that  the  noise  my  footsteps  made  startled  me,  and 
the  floor  creaked  and  cracked  as  if  some  one  followed 
me  about.  There  was  hardly  a  straw  left  or  a  bit  of 
string  or  paper,  but  the  rooms  were  much  worn,  the 
bricks  in  the  fire-places  were  burnt  out,  rough  and 
crumbling,  and  the  doors  were  all  worn  smooth  and 
round  at  the  edges.  The  best  rooms  were  wain- 
scoted, but  up-stairs  there  was  a  long,  unfinished  room 
with  a  little  square  window  at  each  end,  under  the 
sloping  roof,  and  as  I  listened  there  to  the  rain  I 
remembered  that  I  had  once  heard  an  old  man  say 
wistfully,  that  he  had  slept  in  just  such  a  "  linter  " 


110  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

chamber  as  this  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  that  he 
never  could  sleep  anywhere  now  so  well  as  he  used 
there  while  the  rain  fell  on  the  roof  just  over  his 
bed. 

Down-stairs  I  found  a  room  which  I  knew  must 
have  been  the  study.  It  was  handsomely  wainscoted, 
and  the  finish  of  it  was  even  better  than  that  of  the 
parlor.  It  must  have  been  a  most  comfortable  place, 
and  I  fear  the  old  parson  was  luxurious  in  his  tastes 
and  less  ascetic,  perhaps,  than  the  more  puritanical 
members  of  his  congregation  approved.  There  was 
a  great  fire-place  with  a  broad  hearth-stone,  where  I 
think  he  may  have  made  a  mug  of  flip  sometimes, 
and  there  were  several  curious,  narrow,  little  cup- 
boards built  into  the  wall  at  either  side,  and  over  the 
fire-place  itself  two  doors  opened  and  there  were 
shelves  inside,  broader  at  the  top  as  the  chimney 
sloped  back.  I  saw  some  writing  on  one  of  these 
doors  and  went  nearer  to  read  it.  There  was  a  date 
at  the  top,  some  time  in  1802,  and  his  reverence 
had  had  a  good  quill  pen  and  ink  which  bravely 
stood  the  test  of  time ;  he  must  have  been  a  tall  man 
to  have  written  so  high.  I  thought  it  might  be  some 
record  of  a  great  storm  or  other  notable  event  in  his 
house  or  parish,  but  I  was  amused  to  find  that  he 
had  written  there  on  the  unpainted  wood  some  valu- 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  Ill 

able  recipes  for  the  medical  treatment  of  horses. 
"  It  is  Useful  for  a  Sprain  —  and  For  a  Cough,  Take 
of  Elecampane  "  —  and  so  on.  I  hope  he  was  hot  a 
hunting  parson,  but  one  could  hardly  expect  to  find 
any  reference  to  the  early  fathers  or  federal  head- 
ship in  Adam  on  the  cupboard  door.  I  thought  of 
the  stories  I  had  heard  of  the  old  minister  and  felt 
very  well  acquainted  with  him,  though  his  books  had 
been  taken  down  and  his  fire  was  out,  and  he  himself 
had  gone  away.  I  was  glad  to  think  what  a  good, 
faithful  man  he  was,  who  spoke  comfortable  words 
to  his  people  and  lived  pleasantly  with  them  in  this 
quiet  country  place  so  many  years.  There  are  old 
people  living  who  have  told  me  that  nobody  preaches 
nowadays  as  he  used  to  preach,  and  that  he  used  to 
lift  his  hat  to  everybody  ;  that  he  liked  a  good  din- 
ner, and  always  was  kind  to  the  poor. 

I  thought  as  I  stood  in  the  study,  how  many  times 
he  must  have  looked  out  of  the  small-paned  western 
windows  across  the  fields,  and  how  in  his  later  days 
he  must  have  had  a  treasure  of  memories  of  the  peo- 
ple who  had  gone  out  of  that  room  the  better  for  his 
advice  and  consolation,  the  people  whom  he  had 
helped  and  taught  and  ruled.  I  could  not  imagine 
that  he  ever  angrily  took  his  parishioners  to  task  for 
their  errors  of  doctrine ;  indeed,  it  was  not  of  his  ac- 


!12  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

tive  youth  and  middle  age  that  I  thought  at  all,  bul 
of  the  last  of  his  life,  when  he  sat  here  in  the  sun 
shine  of  a  winter  afternoon,  and  the  fire  flickered  anc 
snapped  on  the  hearth,  and  he  sat  before  it  in  his 
arm-chair  with  a  brown  old  book  which  he  laid  or 
his  knee  while  he  thought  and  dozed,  and  rousec 
himself  presently  to  greet  somebody  who  came  in,  2 
little  awed  at  first,  to  talk  with  him.  It  was  a  greal 
thing  to  be  a  country  minister  in  those  old  days,  anc 
to  be  such  a  minister  as  he  was  ;  truly  the  priest  anc 
ruler  of  his  people.  The  times  have  changed,  and 
the  temporal  power  certainly  is  taken  away.  The 
divine  right  of  ministers  is  almost  as  little  believec 
in  as  that  of  kings,  by  many  people  ;  it  is  not  possi- 
ble for  the  influence  to  be  so  great,  the  office  and  the 
man  are  both  looked  at  with  less  reverence.  It  is  a 
pity  that  it  should  be  so,  but  the  conservative  people 
who  like  old-fashioned  ways  cannot  tell  where  to 
place  all  the  blame.  And  it  is  very  odd  to  think 
that  these  iconoclastic  and  unpleasant  new  times  oi 
ours  will,  a  little  later,  be  called  old  times,  and  that 
the  children,  when  they  are  elderly  people,  will  sigh 
to  have  them  back  again. 

I  was  very  glad  to  see  the  old  house,  and  I  told 
myself  a  great  many  stories  there,  as  one  cannot 
help  doing  in  such  a  place.  There  must  have  been 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  113 

so  many  things  happen  in  so  many  long  lives  which 
were  lived  there ;  people  have  come  into  the  world 
and  gone  out  of  it  again  from  those  square  rooms 
with  their  little  windows,  arid  I  believe  if  there  are 
ghosts  who  walk  about  in  daylight  I  was  only  half 
deaf  to  their  voices,  and  heard  much  of  what  they 
tried  to  tell  me  that  day.  The  rooms  which  had 
looked  empty  at  first  were  filled  again  with  the  old 
clergymen,  who  met  together  with  important  looks 
and  complacent  dignity,  and  eager  talk  about  some 
minor  point  in  theology  that  is  yet  unsettled  ;  the 
awkward,  smiling  couples,  who  came  to  be  married ; 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  must  have  been  a 
stately  person  in  her  day ;  the  little  children  who, 
under  all  their  shyness,  remembered  the  sugar-plums 
in  the  old  parson's  pockets,  —  all  these,  and  even 
the  tall  cane  that  must  have  stood  in  the  entry,  were 
visible  to  my  mind's  eye.  And  I  even  heard  a  ser- 
mon from  the  old  preacher  who  died  so  long  ago,  on 
the  beauty  of  a  lii'e  well  spent. 

The  rain  fell  steadily  and  there  was  no  prospect 
of  its  stopping,  though  1  could  see  that  the  clouds 
were  thinner  and  that  it  was  only  a  shower.  In  the 
kitchen  I  found  an  old  chair  which  I  pulled  into  the 
study,  which  seemed  more  cheerful  than  the  rest  of 
the  house,  and  then  I  remembered  that  there  were 
8 


114  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

some  bits  of  board  in  the  kitchen  also,  and  the 
thought  struck  me  that  it  would  be  good  fun  to  make 
a  fire  in  the  old  fire-place.  Everything  seemed  right 
about  the  chimney.  I  even  went  up  into  the  garret 
to  look  at  it  there,  for  I  had  no  wish  to  set  the  par- 
sonage on  fire,  aud  I  brought  down  a  pile  of  old  corn 
husks  for  kindlings  which  I  found  on  the  garret  floor. 
I  built  my  fire  carefully,  with  two  bricks  for  andirons, 
and  when  I  lit  it  it  blazed  up  gayly,  I  poked  it  and 
it  crackled,  and  though  I  was  very  well  contented 
there  alone  I  wished  for  some  friend  to  keep  me 
company,  it  was  selfish  to  have  so  much  pleasure 
with  no  one  to  share  it.  The  rain  came  faster  than 
ever  against  the  windows,  and  the  room  would  have 
been  dark  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  fire,  which  threw 
out  a  magnificent  yellow  light  over  the  old  brown 
wood-work.  I  leaned  back  and  watched  the  dry 
sticks  fall  apart  in  red  coals  and  thought  I  might 
have  to  spend  the  night'there,  for  if  it  were  a  storm 
and  not  a  shower  I  was  several  miles  from  home, 
and  a  late  October  rain  is  not  like  a  warm  one  in 
June  to  fall  upon  one's  shoulders.  I  could  hear  the 
house  leaking  when  it  rained  less  heavily,  and  the 
soot  dropped  down  the  chimney  and  great  drops  of 
water  came  down,  too,  and  spluttered  in  the  fire.  I 
thought  what  a  merry  thing  it  would  be  if  a  party  of 


AN  OCTOBER  RIDE.  115 

young  people  ever  had  to  take  refuge  there,  and  I 
could  almost  see  their  faces  and  hear  them  laugh, 
though  until  that  minute  they  had  been  strangers  to 
me. 

But  the  shower  was  over  at  last,  and  my  fire  was 
out,  and  the  last  pale  shining  of  the  sun  came  into 
the  windows,  and  I  looked  out  to  see  the  distant  fields 
and  woods  all  clear  again  in  the  late  afternoon  light. 
I  must  hurry  to  get  home  before  dark,  so  I  raked  up 
the  ashes  and  left  my  chair  beside  the  fire-place,  and 
shut  and  fastened  the  front  door  after  me,  and  went 
out  to  see  what  had  become  of  my  horse,  shaking  the 
dust  and  cobwebs  off  my  dress  as  I  crossed  the  wet 
grass  to  the  shed.  The  rain  had  come  through  the 
broken  roof  and  poor  Sheila  looked  anxious  and  hun- 
gry as  if  she  thought  I  might  have  meant  to  leave  her 
there  till  morning  in  that  dismal  place.  I  offered  her 
my  apologies,  but  she  made  even  a  shorter  turn  than 
usual  when  I  had  mounted,  and  we  scurried  off  down 
the  road,  spattering  ourselves  as  we  went.  I  hope 
the  ghosts  who  live  in  the  parsonage  watched  me 
with  friendly  eyes,  and  I  looked  back  myself,  to  see 
a  thin  blue  whiff  of  smoke  still  coming  up  from  the 
great  chimney.  I  wondered  who  it  was  that  had 
made  the  first  fire  there,  —  but  I  think  I  shall  have 
made  the  last. 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL  VILLAGER. 


A.TELY  I  have  been  thinking,  with  much 
sorrow,  of  the  approaching  extinction  of 
front  yards,  and  of  the  type  of  New  England 
village  character  and  civilization  with  which  they  are 
associated.  Formerly,  because  I  lived  in  an  old- 
fashioried  New  England  village,  it  would  have  been 
hard  for  me  to  imagine  that  there  were  parts  of  the 
country  where  the  Front  yard,  as  I  knew  it,  was  not 
in  fashion,  and  that  Grounds  (however  small)  had 
taken  its  place.  No  matter  how  large  a  piece  of 
land  lay  in  front  of  a  house  in  old  times,  it  was  still 
a  front  yard,  in  spite  of  noble  dimension  and  the 
skill  of  practiced  gardeners. 

There  are  still  a  good  many  examples  of  the  old 
manner  of  out-of-door  life  and  customs,  as  well  as  a 
good  deal  of  the  old-fashioned  provincial  society,  left 
in  the  eastern  parts  of  the  New  England  States ;  but 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  117 

put  side  by  side  with  the  society  that  is  American 
rather  than  provincial,  one  discovers  it  to  be  in  a 
small  minority.  The  representative  United  States 
citizen  will  be,  or  already  is,  a  Westerner,  and  his 
instincts  and  ways  of  looking  at  things  have  certain 
characteristics  of  their  own  which  are  steadily  grow- 
ing more  noticeable. 

For  many  years  New  England  was  simply  a  bit  of 
Old  England  transplanted.  We  all  can  remember 
elderly  people  whose  ideas  were  wholly  under  the 
influence  of  their  English  ancestry.  It  is  hardly 
more  than  a  hundred  years  since  we  were  English 
colonies,  and  not  independent  United  States,  and 
the  customs  and  ideas  of  the  mother  country  were 
followed  from  force  of  habit.  Now  one  begins  to  see 
a  difference;  the  old  traditions" have  had  time  to  al- 
most die  out  even  in  the  most  conservative  and  least 
changed  towns,  and  a  new  element  has  come  in. 
The  true  characteristics  of  American  society,  as  I 
have  said,  are  showing  themselves  more  and  more 
distinctly  to  the  westward  of  New  England,  and 
come  back  to  it  in  a  tide  that  steadily  sweeps  away 
the  old  traditions.  It  rises  over  the  heads  of  the 
prim  and  stately  idols  before  which  our  grandfathers 
and  grandmothers  bowed  down  and  worshiped,  and 
which  we  ourselves  were  at  least  taught  to  walk 
softly  by  as  they  toppled  on  their  thrones. 


118  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

One  cannot  help  wondering  what  a  lady  of  the 
old  school  will  be  like  a  hundred  years  from  now  ! 
Bufc  at  any  rate  she  will  not  be  in  heart  and  thought 
and  fashion  of  good  breeding  as  truly  an  English- 
woman as  if  she  had  never  stepped  out  of  Great 
Britain.  If  one  of  our  own  elderly  ladies  were  sud- 
denly dropped  into  the  midst  of  provincial  English 
society,  she  would  be  quite  at  home ;  but  west  of  her 
own  Hudson  River  she  is  lucky  if  she  does  not  find 
herself  behind  the  times,  and  almost  a  stranger  and 
a  foreigner. 

And  yet  from  the  first  there  was  a  little  difference, 
and  the  colonies  were  New  England  and  not  Old. 
In  some  ways  more  radical,  yet  in  some  ways  more 
conservative,  than  the  people  across  the  water,  they 
showed  a  new  sort  of  flower  when  they  came  into 
bloom  in  this  new  climate  and  soil.  In  the  old 
days  there  had  not  been  time  for  the  family  ties  to  be 
broken  and  forgotten.  Instead  of  the  unknown  Eng- 
lish men  and  women  who  are  our  sixth  and  sev- 
enth cousins  now,  they  had  first  and  second  cousins 
then  ;  but  there  was  little  communication  between 
one  country  and  the  other,  and  the  mutual  interest  in 
every-day  affairs  had  to  fade  out  quickly.  A  traveler 
was  a  curiosity,  and  here,  even  between  the  villages 
themselves,  there  was  far  less  intercourse  than  we 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL   VILLAGER.  119 

can  believe  possible.  People  stayed  on  their  own 
ground ;  their  horizons  were  of  small  circumference, 
arid  their  whole  interest  and  thought  were  spent  upon 
their  own  land,  their  own  neighbors,  their  own  affairs, 
while  they  not  only  were  contented  with  this  state 
of  things  but  encouraged  it.  One  has  only  to  look 
at  the  high-walled  pews  of  the  old  churches,  at  the 
high  fences  of  the  town  gardens,  and  at  even  the 
strong  fortifications  around  some  family  lots  in  the 
burying-grounds,  to  be  sure  of  this.  The  inter- 
viewer was  not  besought  and  encouraged  in  those 
days,  —  he  was  defied.  In  that  quarter,  at  least,  they 
had  the  advantage  of  us.  Their  interest  was  as  real 

O 

and  heartfelt  in  each  other's  affairs  as  ours,  let  us 
hope  ;  but  they  never  allowed  idle  curiosity  to  show 
itself  in  the  world's  market-place,  shameless  and  un- 
blushing. 

There  is  so  much  to  be  said  in  favor  of  our  own  day, 
and  the  men  and  women  of  our  own  time,  that  a  plea 
for  a  recognition  of  the  quaint-ness  and  pleasantness 
of  village  life  in  the  old  days  cannot  seem  unwelcome, 
or  without  deference  to  all  that  has  come  with  the 
later  years  of  ease  and  comfort,  or  of  discovery  in 
the  realms  of  mind  or  matter.  We  are  beginning 
to  cling  to  the  elderly  people  who  are  so  different 
from  ourselves,  and  for  this  reason :  we  are  paying 


120  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

them  instinctively  the  honor  that  is  due  from  us  to 
our  elders  and  betters ;  they  have  that  grand  pres- 
tige and  dignity  that  only  comes  with  age;  they  are 
like  old  wines,  perhaps  no  better  than  many  others 
when  they  were  young,  but  now  after  many  years 
they  have  come  to  be  worth  nobody  knows  how  many 
dollars  a  dozen,  and  the  connoisseurs  make  treasures 
of  the  few  bottles  of  that  vintage  which  are  left. 

It  was  a  restricted  and  narrowly  limited  life  in  the 
old  days.  Religion,  or  rather  sectarianism,  was  apt 
to  be  simply  a  matter  of  inheritance,  and  there  was 
far  more  bigotry  in  every  cause  and  question,  —  a 
fiercer  partisanship ;  and  because  there  were  fewer 
channels  of  activity,  and  those  undivided  into  spe- 
cialties, there  was  a  whole-souled  concentration  of 
energy  that  was  as  efficient  as  it  was  sometimes  nar- 
row and  short-sighted.  People  were  more  contented 
in  the  sphere  of  life  to  which  it  had  pleased  God  to 
call  them,  and  they  do  not  seem  to  have  been  so  often 
sorely  tempted  by  the  devil  with  a  sight  of  the  king- 
doms of  the  world  and  the  glory  of  them.  We  are 
more  likely  to  busy  ourselves  with  finding  things  to 
do  than  in  doing  with  our  might  the  work  that  is  in 
our  hands  already.  The  disappearance  of  many  of 
the  village  front  yards  may  come  to  be  typical  of  the 
altered  position  of  woman,  and  mark  a  stronghold  on 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL   VILLAGER.  121 

her  way  from  the  much  talked-of  slavery  and  subjec- 
tion to  a  coveted  equality.  She  used  to  be  shut  off 
from  the  wide  acres  of  the  farm,  and  had  no  voice  in 
the  world's  politics  ;  she  must  stay  in  the  house,  or 
only  hold  sway  out  of  doors  in  this  prim  corner  of 
land  where  she  was  queen.  No  wonder  that  women 
clung  to  their  rights  in  their  flower-gardens  then,  and 
no  wonder  that  they  have  grown  a  little  careless  of 
them  now,  and  that  lawn  mowers  find  so  ready  a 
sale.  The  whole  world  is  their  front  yard  nowa- 
days ! 

There  might  be  written  a  history  of  front  yards  in 
New  England  which  would  be  very  interesting  to 
read.  It  would  end  in  a  treatise  upon  landscape 
gardening  and  its  possibilities,  and  wild  flights  of 
imagination  about  the  culture  of  plants  under  glass, 
the  application  of  artificial  heat  in  forcing,  and  the 
curious  mingling  and  development  of  plant  life,  but  it 
would  begin  in  the  simple  time  of  the  early  colonists. 
It  must  have  been  hard  when,  after  being  familiar 
with  the  gardens  and  parks  of  England  and  Holland, 
they  found  themselves  restricted  to  front  yards  by 
way  of  pleasure  grounds.  Perhaps  they  thought  such 
things  were  wrong,  and  that  having  a  pleasant  place 
to  walk  about  in  out  of  doors  would  encourage  idle 


122  COUNTRY  BY-WATS. 

and  lawless  ways  in  the  young  ;  at  any  rate,  for 'sev- 
eral years  it  was  more  necessary  to  raise  corn  and 
potatoes  to  keep  themselves  from  starving  than  to 
lay  out  alleys  and  plant  flowers  and  box  borders 
among  the  rocks  and  stumps.  There  is  a  great  pa- 
thos in  the  fact  that  in  so  stern  and  hard  a  life  there 
was  time  or  place  for  any  gardens  at  all.  I  can  pict- 
ure to  myself  the  little  slips  and  cuttings  that  had 
been  brought  over  in  the  ship,  and  more  carefully 
guarded  than  any  of  the  household  goods  ;  I  can  see 
the  women  look  at  them  tearfully  when  they  came 
into  bloom,  because  nothing  else  could  be  a  better 
reminder  of  their  old  home.  What  fears  there  must 
have  been  lest  the  first  winter's  cold  might  kill  them, 
and  with  what  love  and  care  they  must  have  been 
tended  !  I  know  a  rose-bush,  and  a  little  while  ago 
I  knew  an  apple-tree,  that  were  brought  over  by  the 
first  settlers  ;  the  rose  still  blooms,  and  until  it  was 
cut  down  the  old  tree  bore  apples.  It  is  strange  to 
think  that  civilized  New  England  is  no  older  than  the 
little  red  roses  that  bloom  in  June  on  that  slope  above 
the  river  in  Kittery.  Those  earliest  gardens  were 
very  pathetic  in  the  contrast  of  their  extent  and  their 
power  of  suggestion  and  association.  Every  seed 
that  came  up  was  thanked  for  its  kindness,  and  every 
flower  that  bloomed  was  the  child  of  a  beloved  an- 
cestry. 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  123 

It  would  be  interesting  to  watch  the  growth  of  the 
gardens  as  life  became  easier  and  more  comfortable 
in  the  colonies.  As  the  settlements  grew-into  villages 
and  towns,  and  the  Indians  were  less  dreadful,  and 
the  houses  were  better  and  more  home-like,  the  busy 
people  began  to  find  a  little  time  now  and  then  when 
they  could  enjoy  themselves  soberly.  Beside  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  they  could  have  some  flowers  and 
a  sprig  of  sage  and  southernwood  and  tansy,  or  lav- 
ender that  had  come  from  Surrey  and  could  be  dried 
to  be  put  among  the  linen  as  it  used  to  be  strewn 
through  the  chests  and  cupboards  in  the  old  country. 

I  like  to  think  of  the  changes  as  they  came  slowly ; 
that  after  a  while  tender  plants  could  be  kept  through 
the  winter,  because  the  houses  were  better  built  and 
warmer,  and  were  no  longer  rough  shelters  which 
were  only  meant  to  serve  until  there  could  be  some- 
thing better.  Perhaps  the  parlor,  or  best  room,  and 
a  special  separate  garden  for  the  flowers  were  two 
luxuries  of  the  same  date,  and  they  made  a  notice- 
able change  in  the  manner  of  living,  —  the  best  room 
being  a  formal  recognition  of  the  claims  of  society, 
and  the  front  yard  an  appeal  for  the  existence  of 
something  that  gave  pleasure,  —  beside  the  merely 
useful  and  wholly  necessary  things  of  life.  When  it 
was  thought  worth  while  to  put  a  fence  around  the 


124  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

flower-garden  the  respectability  of  art  itself  was  es- 
tablished and  made  secure.  Whether  the  house  was 
a  fine  one,  and  its  inclosure  spacious,  or  whether  it 
was  a  small  house  with  only  a  narrow  bit  of  ground 
in  front,  this  yard  was  kept  with  care,  and  it  was  dif- 
ferent from  the  rest  of  the  land  altogether.  The 
children  were  not  often  allowed  to  play  there,  and 
the  family  did  not  use  the  front  door  except  upon  oc- 
casions of  more  or  less  ceremony.  I  think  that  many 
of  the  old  front  yards  could  tell  stories  of  the  lovers 
who  found  it  hard  to  part  under  the  stars,  and  lin- 
gered over  the  gate  ;  and  who  does  not  remember 
the  solemn  group  of  men  who  gather  there  at  funer- 
als, and  stand  with  their  heads  uncovered  as  the 
mourners  go  out  and  come  in,  two  by  two.  I  have 
always  felt  rich  in  the  possession  of  an  ancient  York 
tradition  of  an  old  fellow  who  demanded,  as  he  lay 
dying,  that  the  grass  in  his  front  yard  should  be  cut 
at  once  ;  it  was  no  use  to  have  it  trodden  down  and 
spoilt  by  the  folks  at  the  funeral.  I  always  hoped  it 
was  good  hay  weather ;  but  he  must  have  been  cer- 
tain of  that  when  he  spoke.  Let  us  hope  he  did  not 
confuse  this  world  with  the  next,  being  so  close  upon 
the  borders  of  it !  It  was  not  man-like  to  think  of 
the  front  yard,  since  it  was  the  special  domain  of  the 
women,  —  the  men  of  the  family  respected  but  ig- 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  125 

nored  it,  —  they  had  to  be  teased  in  the  spring  to 
dig  the  flower  beds,  but  it  was  the  busiest  time  of 
the  year  ;  one  should  remember  that. 

I  think  many  people  are  sorry,  without  knowing 
why,  to  see  the  fences  pulled  down  ;  and  the  disap- 
pearance of  plain  white  palings  causes  almost  as  deep 
regret  as  that  of  the  handsonle  ornamental  fences 
and  their  high  posts  with  urns  or  great  white  balls 
on  top.  A  stone  coping  does  not  make  up  for  the 
loss  of  them;  it  always  looks  a  good  deal  like  a  lot  in 
a  cemetery,  for  one  thing ;  and  then  in  a  small  town 
the  grass  is  not  smooth,  and  looks  uneven  where  the 
flower-beds  were  not  properly  smoothed  down.  The 
stray  cows  trample  about  where  they 'never  went 
before  ;  the  bushes  and  little  trees  that  were  once 
protected  grow  ragged  and  scraggly  and  out  at  el- 
bows, and  a  few  forlorn  flowers  come  up  of  them- 
selves and  try  hard  to  grow  and  to  bloom.  The  un- 
gainly red  tubs  that  are  perched  on  little  posts  have 
plants  in  them,  but  the  poor  posies  look  as  if  they 
would  rather  be  in  the  ground,  and  as  if  they  are  held 
too  near  the  fire  of  the  sun.  If  everything  must  be 
neglected  and  forlorn  so  much  the  more  reason  there 
should  be  a  fence,  if  but  to  hide  it.  Americans  are 
too  fond  of  being  stared  at ;  they  apparently  feel  as 
if  it  were  one's  duty  to  one's  neighbor.  Even  if  there 


126  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

is  nothing  really  worth  looking  at  about  a  house  it  is 
still  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  the  passers-by.  Foreign- 
ers are'far  more  sensible  than  we,  and  the  out-of-door 
home  life  among  them  is  something  we  might  well 
try  to  copy ;  they  often  have  their  meals  served  out 
of  doors,  and  one  can  enjoy  an  afternoon  nap  in  a 
hammock,  or  can  take  one's  work  out  into  the  shady 
garden  with  great  satisfaction,  unwatched  ;  and  even 
a  little  piece  of  ground  can  be  made,  if  shut  in  and 
kept  for  the  use  and  pleasure  of  the  family  alone,  a 
most  charming  unroofed  and  trellised  summer  ante- 
room to  the  house.  In  a  large,  crowded  town  it 
would  be  selfish  to  conceal  the  rare  bits  of  garden, 
where  the  sight  of  anything  green  is  a  godsend  ;  but 
where  there  is  the  whole  wide  country  of  fields  and 
woods  within  easy  reach  I  think  there  should  be  high 
walls  around  our  gardens,  and  that  we  lose  a  great 
deal  in  not  making  them  entirely  separate  from  the 
highway  ;  as  much  as  we  should  lose  in  making  the 
walls  of  our  parlors  and  dining-rooms  of  glass,  and 
building  the  house  as  close  to  the  street  as  possible. 

But  to  go  back  to  the  little  front  yards  :  we  are 
sorry  to  miss  them  and  their  tangle  or  orderliness  of 
roses  and  larkspur  and  honeysuckle,  Canterbury 
bells  and  London  pride,  lilacs  and  peonies.  These 
may  all  bloom  better  than  ever  in  the  new  beds  that 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  127 

are  cut  in  the  turf ;  but  with  the  side  fences  that 
used  to  come  from  the  corners  of  the  house  to  the 
front  fence,  other  barriers,  as  I  have  said  here  over 
and  over,  have  been  taken  away,  and  the  old-fash- 
ioned village  life  is  becoming  extinct.  People  do  not 
know  what  they  lose  when  they  make  way  with  the 
reserve,  the  separateness,  the  sanctity  of  the  front 
yard  of  their  grandmothers.  It  is  like  writing  down 
the  family  secrets  for  any  one  to  read ;  it  is  like 
having  everybody  call  you  by  your  first  name  and 
sitting  in  any  pew  in  church,  and  like  having  your 
house  in  the  middle  of  a  road,  to  take  away  the  fence 
which,  slight  as  it  may  be,  is  a  fortification  round 
your  home.  More  things  than  one  may  come  in 
without  being  asked  ;  we  Americans  had  better  build 
more  fences  than  take  any  away  from  our  lives. 
There  should  be  gates  for  charity  to  go  out  and  *n, 
and  kindness  and  sympathy,  too  ;  but  his  life  and  his 
house  are  together  each  man's  stronghold  and  castle, 
to  be  kept  and  defended. 

I  was  much  amused  once  at  thinking  that  the  fine 
old  solid  paneled  doors  were  being  unhinged  faster 
than  ever  nowadays,  since  so  many  front  gates  have 
disappeared,  and  the  click  of  the  latch  can  no  longer 
give  notice  of  the  approach  of  a  guest.  Now  the 
knocker  sounds  or  the  bell  rings  without  note  or 


128  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

warning,  and  the  village  housekeeper  cannot  see  who 
is  coming  in  until  they  have  already  reached  the 
door.  Once  the  guests  could  be  seen  on  their  way  up 
the  walk.  It  must  be  a  satisfaction  to  look  through 
the  clear  spots  of  the  figured  ground-glass  in  the  new 
doors,  and  I  believe  if  there  is  a  covering  inside  few 
doors  will  be  found  unprovided  with' a  peep-hole.  It 
was  better  to  hear  the" gate  open  and  shut,  and  if  it 
caught  and  dragged  as  front  gates  are  very  apt  to  do 
you  could  have  time  always  for  a  good  look  out  of 
the  window  at  the  approaching  friend. 

There  are  few  of  us  who  cannot  remember  a  front- 
yard  garden  which  seemed  to  us  a  very  paradise  in 
childhood.  It  was  like  a  miracle  when  the  yellow  and 
white  daffies  came  into  bloom  in  the  spring,  and  there 
was  a  time  when  tiger-lilies  and  the  taller  rose-bushes 
were  taller  than  we  were,  and  we  could  not  look  over 
their  heads  as  we  do  now.  There  were  always  a  good 
many  lady's-delights  that  grew  under  the  bushes,  and 
came  up  anywhere  in  the  chinks  of  the  walk  or  the 
door-step,  and  there  was  a  little  green  sprig  called 
ambrosia  that  was  a  famous  stray-away.  Outside 
the  fence  one  was  not  unlikely  to  see  a  company  of 
French  pinks,  which  .were  forbidden  standing-room 
inside  as  if  they  were  tiresome  poor  relations  of  the 
other  flowers.  I  always  felt  a  sympathy  for  French 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  129 

pinks,  —  they  have  a  fresh,  sweet  look,  as  if  they  re- 
signed themselves  to  their  lot  in  life  and  made  the 
best  of  it,  and  remembered  that  they  had  the  sun- 
shine and  rain,  and  could  see  what  was  going  on  in 
the  world,  if  they  were  outlaws. 

I  like  to  remember  being  sent  on  errands,  and  be- 
ing asked  to  wait  while  the  mistress  of  the  house 
picked  some  flowers  to  send  back  to  my  mother. 
They  were  almost  always  prim,  flat  bouquets  in  those 
days  ;  the  larger  flowers  were  picked  first  and  stood 
at  the  back  and  looked  over  the  heads  of  those  that 
were  shorter  of  stem  and  stature,  and  the  givers  al- 
ways sent  a  message  that  they  had  not  stopped  to 
arrange  them.  I  remember  that  I  had  even  then  a 
great  dislike  to  lemon  verbena,  and  that  I  would  have 
waited  patiently  outside  a  gate  all  the  afternoon  if  I 
knew  that  some  one  would  kindly  give  me  a  sprig  of 
lavender  in  the  evening.  And  lilies  did  not  seem  to 
me  overdressed,  but  it  was  easy  for  me  to  believe  that 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  a  great 
yellow  marigold,  or  even  the  dear  little  single  ones 
that  were  yellow  and  brown,  and  bloomed  until  the 
snow  came. 

I  wish  that  I  had  lived  for  a  little  while  in  those 
days  when  lilacs  were  a  new  fashion,  and  it  was  a 
great  distinction  to  have  some  growing  in  a  front 


130  COUNTRY  BY-WATS. 

yard.  It  always  seems  as  if  lilacs  arid  poplars  be- 
longed to  the  same  generation  with  a  certain  kind  of 
New  English  gentlemen  and  ladies,  who  were  ascetic 
and  severe  in  some  of  their  fashions,  while  in  others 
they  were  more  given  to  pleasuring  and  mild  revelry 
than  either  their  ancestors  or  the  people  who  have 
lived  in  their  houses  since.  Fifty  years  ago  there 
seems  to  have  been  a  last  tidal  wave  of  Puritanism 
which  swept  over  the  country,  and  drowned  for  a 
time  the  sober  feasting  and  dancing  which  before  had 
been  considered  no  impropriety  in  the  larger  villages. 
Whist-playing  was  clung  to  only  by  the  most  worldly 
citizens,  and,  as  for  dancing,  it  was  made  a  sin  in  it- 
self and  a  reproach,  as  if  every  step  was  taken  will- 
fully in  seven-leagued  boots  toward  a  place  which  is 
to  be  the  final  destination  of  all  the  wicked. 

A  single  poplar  may  have  a  severe  and  unchari- 
table look,  but  a  row  of  them  suggests  the  antique 
and  pleasing  pomp  and  ceremony  of  their  early  days, 
before  the  sideboard  cupboards  were  only  used  to 
keep  the  boxes  of  strings  and  nails  and  the  duster ; 
and  the  best  decanters  were  put  on  a  high  shelf,  while 
the  plain  ones  were  used  for  vinegar  in  the  kitchen 
closet.  There  is  far  less  social  visiting  from  house  to 
house  than  there  used  to  be.  People  in  the  smaller 
towns  have  more  acquaintances  who  live  at  a  distance 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  lol 

than  was  the  case  before  the  days  of  railroads,  and 
there  are  more  guests  who  come  from  a  distance, 
which  has  something  to  do  with  making  tea-parties 
and  the  entertainment  of  one's  neighbors  less  frequent 
than  in  former  times.  But  most  of  the  New  Eng- 
land towns  have  changed  their  characters  in  the  last 
twenty  years,  since  the  manufactories  have  come  in 
and  brought  together  large  numbers  either  of  foreign- 
ers or  of  a  different  class  of  people  from  those  who 
used  to  make  the  most  of  the  population.  A  certain 
class  of  families  is  rapidly  becoming  extinct.  There 
will  be  found  in  the  older  villages  very  few  persons 
left  who  belong  to  this  class,  which  was  once  far 
more  important  and  powerful ;  the  oldest  churches 
are  apt  to  be  most  thinly  attended  simply  because  a 
different  sort  of  ideas,  e\7en  of  heavenly  things,  at- 
tract the  newer  resident*.  I  suppose  that  elderly 
people  have  said,  ever  since  the  time  of  Shem,  Ham, 
and  Japhet's  wives  in  the  ark,  that  society  is  nothing 
to  what  it  used  to  be,  and  we  may  expect  to  be  al- 
ways told  what  unworthy  successors  we  are  of  our 
grandmothers.  But  the  fact  remains  that  a  certain 
element  of  American  society  is  fast  dying  out,  giving 
place  to  the  new ;  and  with  all  our  glory  and  pride  in 
modern  progress  and  success  we  cling  to  the  old  as- 
sociations regretfully.  There  is  nothing  to  take  the 


132  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

place  of  the  pleasure  we  have  in  going  to  see  our  old 
friends  in  the  parlors  which  have  changed  little  since 
our  childhood.  No  matter  how  advanced  in  years  we 
seem  to  ourselves  we  are  children  still  to  the  gracious 
hostess.  Thank  Heaven  for  the  friends  who  have  al- 
ways known  us  !  They  may  think  us  unreliable  and 
young  still ;  they  may  not  understand  that  we  have 
become  busy  and  more  or  less  important  people  to 
ourselves  and  to  the  world,  —  we  are  pretty  sure  to 
be  without  honor  in  our  own  country,  but  they  will 
never  forget  us,  and  we  belong  to  each  other  and  al- 
ways shall. 

I  have  received  many  kindnesses  at  my  friends' 
hands,  but  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  felt  my- 
self to  be  a  more  fortunate  or  honored  guest  than  I 
used  years  ago,  when  I  sometimes  went  to  call  upon 
an  elderlv  friend  of  my  mother  who  lived  in  most 
pleasant  and  stately  fashion.  I  used  to  put  on  my 
very  best  manner,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  my 
thoughts  were  well  ordered,  and  my  conversation  as 
proper  as  I  knew  how  to  make  it.  I  can  remember 
that  I  used  to  sit  on  a  tall  ottoman,  with  nothing  to 
lean  against,  and  my  feet  were  off  soundings,  I  was  so 
high  above  the  floor.  We  used  to  discuss  the  weather, 
and  I  said  that  I  went  to  school  (sometimes),  or  that 
it  was  then  vacation,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  we 


FROM  A   MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  133 

tried  to  make  ourselves  agreeable  to  each  other. 
Presently  my  lady  would  take  her  keys  out  of  her 
pocket,  and  sometimes  a  maid  would  come  to  serve 
me,  or  else  she  herself  would  bring  me  a  silver  tray 
with  some  pound-cakes  baked  in  hearts  and  rounds, 
and  a  small  glass  of  wine,  and  I  proudly  felt  that  I 
was  a  guest,  though  I  was  such  a  little  thing  an  at- 
tention was  being  paid  me,  and  a  thrill  of  satisfaction 
used  to  go  over  me  for  my  consequence  and  impor- 
tance. A  handful  of  sugar-plums  would  have  seemed 
nothing  beside  this  entertainment.  I  used  to  be  care- 
ful not  to  crumble  the  cake,  and  I  used  to  eat  it  with 
my  gloves  on,  and  a  pleasant  fragrance  would  cling 
for  some  time  afterward  to  the  ends  of  the  short  Lisle- 
thread  fingers.  I  have  no  doubt  that  my  manners  as 
I  took  leave  were  almost  as  distinguished  as  those  of 
my  hostess,  though  I  might  have  been  wild  and  shy 
all  the  rest  of  the  week.  It  was  not  many  years 
ago  that  I  went  to  my  old  friend's  funeral  —  and  saw 
them  carry  her  down  the  long,  wide  walk,  between 
the  tall  box  borders  which  were  her  pride  ;  and  all 
the  air  was  heavy  and  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  the 
early  summer  blossoms  ;  the  white  lilacs  and  the  flow- 
ering currants  were  still  in  bloom,  and  the  rows  of 
her  dear  Dutch  tulips  stood  dismayed  in  their  flaunt- 
ing colors  and  watched  her  go  away. 


134  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

My  sketch  of  the  already  out-of-date  or  fast  van- 
ishing village  fashions  perhaps  should  be  ended  here, 
but  I  cannot  resist  a  wish  to  add  another  bit  of  auto- 
biography of  which  I  have  been  again  and  again  re- 
minded in  writing  these  pages.     The   front  yard  I 
knew  best  belonged  to  my  grandfather's  house.     My 
grandmother  was  a  proud  and   solemn  woman,  and 
she  hated  my  mischief,  and  rightly  thought  my  elder 
sister  a  much  better  child  than  I.    I  used  to  be  afraid 
of  her  when  I  was  in  the  house,  but  I  shook  off  even 
her  authority  and  forgot  I  was  under  anybody's  rule 
when  I  was  out  of  doors.     I  was  first  cousin  to  a  cat- 
erpillar if  they  called  me  to  come  in,  and  I  was  own 
sister  to  a  giddy-minded  bobolink  when  I  ran  away 
across  the  fields,  as  I  used  to  do  very  often.     But 
when  I  was  a  very  little  child  indeed  my  world  was 
bounded  by  the  fences  that  were  around  my  home  ; 
there  were   wide  green   yards  and  tall  elm-trees  to 
shade  them  ;  there  was  a  long  line  of  barns  and  sheds, 
and  one  of  these  had  a  large  room  in  its  upper  story, 
with  an  old  ship's  foresail  spread  over  the  floor,  and 
made  a  capital  play -room  in  wet  weather.    Here  fruit 
was  spread  in  the  fall,  and  there  were  some  old  chests 
arid  pieces  of  furniture  that  had  been  discarded ;  it 
was  like  the  garret,  only  much  pleasanter.    The  chil- 
dren in  the  village  now  cannot  possibly  be  so  happy 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  135 

as  I  was  then.  I  used  to  mount  the  fence  next  the 
street  and  watch  the  people  go  in  and  out  of  the 
quaint-roofed  village  shops  that  stood  in  a  row  on  the 
other  side,  and  looked  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  Dutch 
or  old  English  town.  They  were  burnt  down  long 
ago,  but  they  were  charmingly  picturesque  ;  the  upper 
stories  sometimes  projected  over  the  lower,  and  the 
chimneys  were  sometimes  clustered  together  and  built 
of  bright  red  bricks. 

And  I  was  too  happy  when  I  could  smuggle  my- 
self into  the  front  yard,  with  its  four  lilac  bushes  and 
its  white  fences  to  shut  it  in  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  beside  other  railings  that  went  from  the  porch 
down  each  side  of  the  brick  walk,  which  was  laid  in 
a  pattern,  and  had  H.  C.,  1818,  cut  deeply  into  one 
of  the  bricks  near  the  door- step.  The  H.  C.  was  for 
Henry  Currier,  the  mason,  who  had  signed  this  choice 
bit  of  work  as  if  it  were  a  picture,  and  he  had  been 
dead  so  many  years  that  I  used  to  think  of  his  ini- 
tials as  if  the  corner  brick  were  a  little  grave-stone 
for  him.  The  knocker  used  to  be  so  bright  that  it 
shone  at  you,  and  caught  your  eye  bewilderingly,  as 
you  came  in  from  the  street  on  a  sunshiny  day. 
There  were  very  few  flowers,  for  my  grandmother  was 
old  and  feeble  when  I  knew  her,  and  could  not  take 
care  of  them  ;  but  I  remember  that  there  were  blush 


136  COUNTRY  BY-WATS. 

roses,  and  white  roses,  and  cinnamon  roses  all  in  a 
tangle  in  one  corner,  and  I  used  to  pick  the  crumpled 
petals  of  those  to  make  myself  a  delicious  coddle  with 
ground  cinnamon  and  damp  brown  sugar.  In  the 
spring  T  used  to  find  the  first  green  grass  there,  for 
it  was  warm  and  sunny,  and  I  used  to  pick  the  little 
French  pinks  when  they  dared  show  their  heads  in 
the  cracks  of  the  flag-stones  that  were  laid  around 
the  house.  There  were  small  shoots  of  lilac,  too,  and 
their  leaves  were  brown  and  had  a  faint,  sweet  fra- 
grance, and  a  little  later  the  dandelions  came  into 
bloom  ;  the  largest  ones  I  knew  grew  there,  and  they 
have  always  been  to  this  day  my  favorite  flowers. 

I  had  my  trials  and  sorrows  in  this  paradise,  how- 
ever ;  I  lost  a  cent  there  one  day  which  I  never  have 
found  yet  !  And  one  morning,  there  suddenly  ap- 
peared in  one  corner  a  beautiful,  d&rk-blue  fleur-de-lis, 
and  I  joyfully  broke  its  neck  and  carried  it  into  the 
house,  but  everybody  had  seen  it,  and  wondered  that 
I  could  not  have  left  it  alone.  Besides  this,  it  befell 
me  later  to  sin  more  gravely  still ;  my  grandmother 
had  kept  some" plants  through  the  winter  on  a  three- 
cornered  stand  built  like  a  flight  of  steps,  and  when 
the  warm  spring  weather  came  this  was  put  out  of 
doors.  She  had  a  cherished  tea-rose  bush,  and  what 
should  I  find  but  a  bud  on  it ;  it  was  opened  just 


FROM  A  MOURNFUL    VILLAGER.  137 

enough  to  give  a  hint  ef  its  color.  I  was  very 
pleased  ;  I  snapped  it  off  at  once,  for  I  had  heard  so 
many  times  that  it  was  hard  to  make  roses  bloom  ; 
and  I  ran  in  through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  where 
I  met  my  grandmother  on  the  square  landing.  She 
sat  down  in  the  window-seat,  and  I  showed  her 
proudly  what  was  crumpled  in  my  warm  little  fist. 
I  can  see  it  now  !  —  it  had  no  stem  at  all,  and  for 
many  days  afterward  I  was  bowed  down  with  a  sense 
of  my  guilt  and  shame,  for  I  was  made  to  understand 
it  was  an  awful  thing  to  have  blighted  and  broken  a 
treasured  flower  like  that. 

It  must  have  been  the  very  next  winter  that  my 
grandmother  died.  She  had  a  long  illness  which  I  do 
not  remember  much  about;  but  the  night  she  died 
might  have  been  yesterday  night,  it  is  all  so  fresh  and 
clear  in  my  mind.  I  did  not  live  with  her  in  the  old 
house  then,  but  in  a  new  house  close  by,  across  the 
yard.  All  the  family  were  at  the  great  house,  and  I 
could  see  that  lights  were  carried  hurriedly  from  one 
room  to  another.  A  servant  came  to  fetch  me,  but  I 
would  not  go  with  her ;  my  grandmother  was  dying, 
whatever  that  might  be,  and  she  was  taking  leave  of 
every  one  —  she  was  ceremonious  even  then.  I  did 
not  dare  to  go  with  the  rest ;  I  had  an  intense  curi- 
osity to  see  what  dying  might  be  like,  but  I  was  afraid 


138  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

to  be  there  with  her,  and  I  was  also  afraid  to  stay  at 
home  alone.  I  was  only  five  years  old.  It  was  in 
December,  and  the  sky  seemed  to  grow  darker  and 
darker,  and  I  went  out  at  last  to  sit  on  a  door-step 
and  cry  softly  to  myself,  and  while  I  was  there  some 
one  came  to  another  door  next  the  street,  and  rang 
the  bell  loudly  again  and  again.  I  suppose  I  was 
afraid  to  answer  the  summons  —  indeed,  I  do  not 
know  that  I  thought  of  it ;  all  the  world  had  been 
still  before,  and  the  bell  sounded  loud  and  awful 
through  the  empty  house.  It  seemed  as  if  the  mes- 
senger from  an  unknown  world  had  come  to  the  wrong 
house  to  call  my  poor  grandmother  away  ;  and  that 
loud  ringing  is  curiously  linked  in  my  mind  with  the 
knocking  at  the  gate  in  "  Macbeth."  I  never  can 
think  of  one  without  the  other,  though  there  was 
no  fierce  Lady  Macbeth  to  bid  me  not  be  lost  so  poorly 
in  my  thoughts  ;  for  when  they  all  came  back  awed 
and  tearful,  and  found  me  waiting  in  the  cold,  alone, 
and  afraid  more  of  this  world  than  the  next,  they 
were  very  good  to  me.  But  as  for  the  funeral,  it  gave 
me  vast  entertainment ;  it  was  the  first  grand  public 
occasion  in  which  I  had  taken  any  share. 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY. 


HAD  started  early  in  the  afternoon  for  a 
long  walk ;  it  was  just  the  weather  for  walk- 
ing, and  I  went  across  the  fields  with  a  de- 
lighted heart.  The  wind  came  straight  in  from  the 
sea,  and  the  sky  was  bright  blue ;  there  was  a  little 
tinge  of  red  still  lingering  on  the  maples,  and  my  dress 
brushed  over  the  late  golden-rods,  while  my  old  dog, 
who  seemed  to  have  taken  a  new  lease  of  youth, 
jumped  about  wildly  and  raced  after  the  little  birds 
that  flew  up  out  of  the  long  brown  grass  —  the  con- 
stant little  chickadees,  that  would  soon  sing  before 
the  coming  of  snow.  But  this  day  brought  no  thought 
of  winter;  it  was  one  of  the  October  days  when  to 
breathe  the  air  is  like  drinking  wine,  and  every  touch 
of  the  wind  against  one's  face  is  a  caress:  like  a  quick, 
sweet  kiss,  that  wind  is.  You  have  a  sense  of  com- 
panionship ;  it  is  a  day  that  loves  you. 


140  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

I  went  strolling  along,  with  this  dear  idle  day  for 
company ;  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be  alive,  and  to  go 
through  the  dry  grass,  and  to  spring  over  the  stone 
walls  and  the  shaky  pasture  fences.  I  stopped  by 
each  of  the  stray  apple-trees  that  came  in  my  way,  to 
make  friends  with  it,  or  to  ask  after  its  health,  if  it 
were  an  old  friend.  These  old  apple-trees  make  very 
charming  bits  of  the  world  in  October  ;  the  leaves 
cling  to  them  later  than  to  the  other  trees,  and  the 
turf  keeps  short  and  green  underneath ;  and  in  this 
grass,  which  was  frosty  in  the  morning,  and  has  not 
quite  dried  yet,  you  can  find  some  cold  little  cider 
apples,  with  one  side  knurly,  and  one  shiny  bright 
red  or  yellow  cheek.  They  are  wet  with  dew,  these 
little  apples,  and  a  black  ant  runs  anxiously  over  them 
when  you  turn  them  round  and  round  to  see  where 
the  best  place  is  to  bite.  There  will  almost  always 
be  a  bird's  nest  in  the  tree,  and  it  is  most  likely  to 
be  a  robin's  nest.  The  prehistoric  robins  must  have 
been  cave  dwellers,  for  they  still  make  their  nests  as 
much  like  cellars  as  they  can,  though  they  follow  the 
new  fashion  and  build  them  aloft.  One  always  has 
a  thought  of  spring  at  the  sight  of  a  robin's  nest.  It 
is  so  little  while  ago  that  it  was  spring,  and  we  were 
so  glad  to  have  the  birds  come  back,  and  the  life  of 
the  new  year  was  just  showing  itself ;  we  were  look- 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  141 

in<r  forward  to  so  much  growth  and  to  the  realization 
and  perfection  of  so  many  things.  I  think  the  sad- 
ness of  autumn,  or  the  pathos  of  it,  is  like  that  of 
elderly  people.  We  have  seen  how  the  flowers  looked 
when  they  bloomed  and  have  eaten  the  fruit  when  it 
was  ripe  ;  the  questions  have  had  their  answer,  the 
days  we  waited  for  have  come  and  gone.  Every- 
thing has  stopped  growing.  And  so  the  children 
have  grown  to  he  men  and  women,  their  lives  have 
been  lived,  the  autumn  has  come.  We  have  seen 
what  our  lives  would  be  like  when  we  were  older ; 
success  or  disappointment,  it  is  all  over  at  any  rate. 
Yet  it  only  makes  one  sad  to  think  it  is  autumn  with 
the  flowers  or  with  one's  own  life,  when  one  forgets 
that  always  and  always  there  will  be  the  spring  again. 
I  am  very  fond  of  walking  between  the  roads.  One 
grows  so  familiar  with  the  highways  themselves.  But 
once  leap  the  fence  and  there  are  a  hundred  roads 
that  you  can  take,  each  with  its  own  scenery  and  en- 
tertainment. Every  walk  of  this  kind  proves  itself  a 
tour  of  exploration  and  discovery,  and  the  fields  of 
my  own  town,  which  I  think  I  know  so  well,  are  al- 
ways new  fields.  I  find  new  ways  to  go,  new  sights 
to  see,  new  friends  among  the  things  that  grow,  and 
new  treasures  and  pleasures  every  summer  ;  and  later, 
when  the  frosts  have  come  and  the  swamps  have 
frozen,  I  can  go  everywhere  I  like  all  over  my  world. 


142  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

That  afternoon  I  found  something  I  had  never 
seen  before  —  a  little  grave  alone  in  a  wide  pasture 
which  had  once  been  a  field.  The  nearest  house  was 
at  least  two  miles  away,  but  by  hunting  for  it  I  found 
a  very  old  cellar,  where  the  child's  home  used  to  be, 
not  very  far  off,  along  the  slope.  It  must  have  been 
a  great  many  years  ago  that  the  house  had  stood 
there  ;  and  the  small  slate  head-stone  was  worn  away 
by  the  rain  and  wind,  so  there  was  nothing  to  be 
read,  if  indeed  there  had  ever  been  any  letters  on  it. 
It  had  looked  many  a  storm  in  the  face,  and  many  a 
red  sunset.  I  suppose  the  woods  near  by  had  grown 
and  been  cut,  and  grown  again,  since  it  was  put  there. 
There  was  an  old  sweet-brier  bush  growing  on  the 
short  little  grave,  and  in  the  grass  underneath  I  found 
a  ground-sparrow's  nest.  It  was  like  a  little  neigh- 
borhood, and  I  have  felt  ever  since  as  if  I  belonged 
to  it ;  and  I  wondered  then  if  one  of  the  young 
ground-sparrows  was  not  always  sent  to  take  the  nest 
when  the  old  ones  were  done  with  it,  so  they  came 
back  in  the  spring  year  after  year  to  live  there,  and 
there  were  always  the  stone  and  the  sweet-brier  bush 
and  the  birds  to  remember  the  child.  It  was  such  a 
lonely  place  in  that  wide  field  under  the  great  sky, 
and  yet  it  was  so  comfortable  too ;  but  the  sight  of 
the  little  grave  at  first  touched  me  strangely,  and  I 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  143 

tried  to  picture  to  myself  the  procession  that  came 
out  from  the  house  the  d;iy  of  the  funeral,  and  I 
thought  of  the  mother  in  the  evening  after  all  the 
people  had  gone  home,  and  how  she  missed  the  baby, 
and  kept  seeing  the  new  grave  out  here  in  the  twilight 
as  she  went  about  her  work.  I  suppose  the  family 
moved  away,  and  so  all  the  rest  were  buried  else- 
where. 

I  often  think  of  this  place,  and  I  link  it  in  my 
thoughts  with  something  I  saw  once  in  the  water 
when  I  was  out  at  sea :  a  little  boat  that  some  child 
had  lost,  that  had  drifted  down  the  river  and  out  to 
sea;  too  long  a  voyage,  for  it  was  a  sad  little  wreck, 
with  even  its  white  sail  of  a  hand-breadth  half  under 
water,  and  its  twine  rigging  trailing  astern.  It  was 
a  silly  little  boat,  and  no  loss,  except  to  its  owner,  to 
whom  it  had  seemed  as  brave  and  proud  a  thing  as 
any  ship  of  the  line  to  you  and  me.  It  was  a  ship- 
wreck of  his  small  hopes,  I  suppose,  and  I  can  see  it 
now,  the  toy  of  the  great  winds  and  waves,  as  it 
floated  on  its  way,  while  I  sailed  on  mine,  out  of  sight 
of  land. 

The  little  grave  is  forgotten  by  everybody  but  me, 
I  think :  the  mother  must  have  found  the  child  again 
in  heaven  a  very  long  time  ago  :  but  in  the  winter  I 
shall  wonder  if  the  snow  has  covered  it  well,  and 


144  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

next  year  I  shall  go  to  see  the  sweet-brier  bush  when 
it  is  in  bloom.  God  knows  what  use  that  life  was, 
the  grave  is  such  a  short  one,  and  nobody  knows 
whose  little  child  it  was ;  but  perhaps  a  thousand  peo- 
ple in  the  world  to-day  are  better  because  it  brought 
a  little  love  into  the  world  that  was  not  there  before. 
I  sat  so  long  here  in  the  sun  that  the  dog,  after 
running  after  all  the  birds,  and  even  chasing  crickets, 
and  going  through  a  great  piece  of  affectation  in  bark- 
ing before  an  empty  woodchuck's  hole  to  kill  time, 
came  to  sit  patiently  in  front  of  me,  as  if  he  wished  to 
ask  when  I  would  go  on.  I  had  never  been  in  this  part 
of  the  pasture  before.  It  was  at  one  side  of  the  way  I 
usually  took,  so  presently  I  went  on  to  find  a  favorite 
track  of  mine,  half  a  mile  to  the  right,  along  the  bank 
of  a  brook.  There  had  been  heavy  rains  the  week 
before,  and  I  found  more  water  than  usual  running, 
and  the  brook  was  apparently  in  a  great  hurry.  It 
was  very  quiet  along  the  shore  of  it ;  the  frogs  had 
long  ago  gone  into  winter-quarters,  and  there  was  not 
one  to  splash  into  the  water  when  he  saw  me  coming. 
I  did  not  see  a  musk-rat  either,  though  I  knew  where 
their  holes  were  by  the  piles  of  fresh-water  mussel 
shells  that  they  had  untidily  thrown  out  at  their  front 
door.  I  thought  it  might  be  well  to  hunt  for  mussels 
myself,  and  crack  them  in  search  of  pearls,  but  it  was 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  145 

too  serene  and  beautiful  a  duy.  I  was  not  willing  to 
disturb  the  comfort  of  even  a  shell-fish.  It  was  one 
of  the  days  when  one  does  not  think  of  being  tired : 
the  scent  of  the  dry  everlasting  flowers,  and  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  wind,  and  the  cawing  of  the  crows,  all 
come  to  me  as  I  think  of  it,  and  I  remember  that  I 
went  a  long  way  before  I  began  to  think  of  going 
home  again.  I  knew  I  could  not  be  far  from  a  cross- 
road, and  when  I  climbed  a  low  hill  I  saw  a  house 
which  I  was  glad  to  make  the  end  of  my  walk  —  for  a 
time,  at  any  rate.  It  was  some  time  since  I  had  seen 
the  old  woman  who  lived  there,  and  I  liked  her  dear- 
ly, and  was  sure  of  a  welcome.  I  went  down  through 
the  pasture  lane,  and  just  then  I  saw  my  father  drive 
away  up  the  road,  just  too  far  for  me  to  make  him 
hear  when  I  called.  That  seemed  too  bad  at  first, 
until  I  remembered  that  he  would  come  back  again 
over  the  same  road  after  a  while,  and  in  the  mean 
time  I  could  make  my  call.  The  house  was  low  and 
long  and  unpainted,  with  a  great  many  frost-bitten 
flowers  about  it.  Some  hollyhocks  were  bowed  down 
despairingly,  and  the  morning-glory  vines  were  more 
miserable  still.  Some  of  the  smaller  plants  had  been 
covered  to  keep  them  from  freezing,  and  were  brav- 
ing out  a  few  more  days,  but  no  shelter  would  avail 
them  much  longer.  And  already  nobody  minded 
10 


146  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

whether  the  gate  was  shut  or  not,  and  part  of  the 
great  flock  of  hens  were  marching  proudly  about 
among  the  wilted  posies,  which  they  had  stretched 
their  necks  wistfully  through  the  fence  for  all  sum- 
mer. I  heard  the  noise  of  spinning  in  the  house,  and 
my  dog  scurried  off  after  the  cat  as  I  went  in  the 
door.  I  saw  Miss  Polly  Marsh  and  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Snow,  stepping  back  and  forward  together  spinning 
yarn  at  a  pair  of  big  wheels.  The  wheels  made  such 
a  noise  with  their  whir  and  creak,  and  my  friends  were 
talking  so  fast  as  they  twisted  and  turned  the  yarn, 
that  they  did  not  hear  my  footstep,  and  I  stood  in  the 
doorway  watching  them,  it  was  such  a  quaint  and 
pretty  sight.  They  went  together  like  a  pair  of  horses, 
and  kept  step  with  each  other  to  and  fro.  They  were 
about  the  same  size,  and  were  cheerful  old  bodies, 
looking  a  good  deal  alike,  with  their  checked  handker- 
chiefs over  their  smooth  gray  hair,  their  dark  gowns 
made  short  in  the  skirts,  and  their  broad  little  feet  in 
gray  stockings  and  low  leather  shoes  without  heels. 
They  stood  straight,  and  though  they  were  quick  at 
their  work  they  moved  stiffly ;  they  were  talking 
busily  about  some  one. 

"  I  could  tell  by  the  way  the  doctor  looked  that  he 
did  n't  think  there  was  much  of  anything  the  matter 
with  her,"  said  Miss  Polly  Marsh.  "  '  You  need  n't 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  147 

tell  me,'  says  I,  the  other  day,  when  I  see  him  at 
Miss  Martin's.  '  She  'd  be  up  and  about  this  min- 
ute if  she  only  had  a  mite  o'  resolution  ; '  and  says 
he,  '  Aunt  Polly,  jou  're  as  near  right  as  usual ; ' ' 
and  the  old  lady  stopped  to  laugh  a  little.  "  I  told 
him  that  wa'n't  saying  much,"  said  she,  with  an  evi- 
dent consciousness  of  the  underlying  compliment  and 
the  doctor's  good  opinion.  "  I  never  knew  one  of 
that  tribe  that  had  n't  a  queer  streak  and  was  n't 
shif 'less ;  but  they  're  tougher  than  ellum  roots  ;  " 
and  she  gave  the  wheel  an  emphatic  turn,  while  Mrs. 
Snow  reached  for  more  rolls  of  wool,  and  happened 
to  see  me. 

"  Wherever  did  you  come  from  ? "  said  they,  in 
great  surprise.  "  Why,  you  was  n't  anywhere  in 
sight  when  I  was  out  speaking  to  the  doctor,"  said 
Mrs.  Snow.  "  Oh,  come  over  horseback,  I  suppose. 
Well,  now,  we  're  pleased  to  see  ye." 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  walked  across  the  fields.  It  was 
too  pleasant  to  stay  in  the  house,  and  I  have  n't  had 
a  long  walk  for  some  time  before."  I  begged  them 
not  to  stop  spinning,  but  they  insisted  that  they 
should  not  have  turned  the  wheels  a  half-dozen  times 
more,  even  if  I  had  not  come,  and  they  pushed  them 
back  to  the  wall  before  they  came  to  sit  down  to  talk 
with  me  over  their  knitting  —  for  neither  of  them 


148  COUNTRY   BY-WAYS. 

were  ever  known  to  be  idle.  Mrs.  Snow  was  only 
there  for  a  visit ;  she  was  a  widow,  and  lived  daring 
most  of  the  year  with  her  son  ;  and  Aunt  Polly  was 
at  home  but  seldom  herself,  as  she  was  a  famous 
nurse,  and  was  often  in  demand  all  through  that 
part  of  the  country.  I  had  known  her  all  my  days. 
Everybody  was  fond  of  the  good  soul,  and  she  had 
been  one  of  the  most  useful  women  in  the  world. 
One  of  my  pleasantest  memories  is  of  a  long  but  not 
very  painful  illness  one  winter,  when  she  came  to 
take  care  of  me.  There  was  no  end  either  to  her 
stories  or  her  kindness.  I  was  delighted  to  find  her 
at  home  that  afternoon,  and  Mrs.  Snow  also. 

Aunt  Polly  brought  me  some  of  her  gingerbread, 
which  she  knew  I  liked,  and  a  stout  little  pitcher  of 
milk,  and  we  sat  there  together  for  a  while,  gossip- 
ing and  enjoying  ourselves.  I  told  all  the  village 
news  that  I  could  think  of,  and  I  was  just  tired 
enough  to  know  it,  and  to  be  contented  to  sit  still  for 
a  while  in  the  comfortable  three-cornered  chair  by 
the  little  front  window.  The  October  sunshine  lay 
along  the  clean  kitchen  floor,  and  Aunt  Polly  darted 
from  her  chair  occasionally  to  catch  stray  little  wisps 
of  wool  which  the  breeze  through  the  door  blew 
along  from  the  wheels.  There  was  a  gay  string  of 
red  peppers  hanging  over  the  very  high  mantel- 


AN  A  UT  UMN  H  OLID  A  Y.  149 

shelf,  and  the  wood-work  in  the  room  had  never 
been  painted,  and  had  grown  dark  brown  with  age 
and  smoke  and  scouring.  The  clock  ticked  solemnly, 
as  if  it  were  a  judge  giving  the  laws  of  time,  and  felt 
itself  to  be  the  only  thing  that  did  not  waste  it. 
There  was  a  bouquet  of  asparagus  and  some  late 
sprigs  of  larkspur  and  white  petunias  on  the  table 
underneath,  and  a  Leavitt's  Almanac  lay  on  the 
county  paper,  which  was  itself  lying  on  the  big  Bible, 
of  which  Aunt  Polly  made  a  point  of  reading  two 
chapters  every  day  in  course.  I  remember  her  say- 
ing, despairingly,  one  night,  half  to  herself,  "  I  don' 
know  but  I  may  skip  the  Chronicles  next  time,"  but 
I  have  never  to  this  day  believed  that  she  did.  They 
asked  me  at  once  to  come  into  the  best  room,  but  I 
liked  the  old  kitchen  best.  "  Who  was  it  that  you 
were  talking  about  as  I  came  in  ?  "  said  I.  "  You 
said  you  did  n't  believe  there  was  much  the  matter 
with  her."  And  Aunt  Polly  clicked  her  knitting- 
needles  faster,  and  told  me  that  it  was  Mary  Susan 
Ash,  over  by  Little  Creek. 

"  They  're  dreadful  nervous,  all  them  Ashes,"  said 
Mrs.  Snow.  "  You  know  young  Joe  Adams's  wife, 
over  our  way,  is  a  sister  to  her,  and  she  's  forever 
a-doctorin'.  Poor  fellow !  he 's  got  a  drag.  I  'm  real 
sorry  for  Joe ;  but,  land  sakes  alive  !  he  might  'a 


150  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

known  better.  They  said  she  had  an  old  green  band- 
box with  a  gingham  cover,  that  was  stowed  full  o' 
vials,  that  she  moved  with  the  rest  of  her  things 
when  she  was  married,  besides  some  she  car'd  in  her 
hands.  I  guess  she  ain't  in  no  more  hurry  to  go 
than  any  of  the  rest  of  us.  I  've  lost  every  mite  of 
patience  with  her.  I  was  over  there  last  week  one 
day,  and  she  'd  had  a  call  from  the  new  supply  — 
you  know  Adams's  folks  is  Methodists  —  and  he  was 
took  in  by  her.  She  made  out  she  'd  got  the  con- 
sumption, and  she  told  how  many  complaints  she 
had,  and  what  a  sight  o'  medicine  she  took,  and  she 
groaned  and  sighed,  and  her  voice  was  so  weak  you 
couldn't  more  than  just  hear  it.  I  stepped  right 
into  the  bedroom  after  he  'd  been  prayin'  with  her, 
and  was  taking  leave.  You  'd  thought,  by  what  he 
said,  she  was  going  right  off  then.  She  was  cough- 
ing dreadful  hard,  and  I  knew  she  had  n't  no  more 
cough  than  I  had.  So  says  I,  k  What 's  the  matter, 
Adaline  ?  I  '11  get  ye  a  drink  of  water.  Something 
in  your  throat,  I  s'pose.  I  hope  you  won't  go  and 
get  cold,  and  have  a  cough.'  She  looked  as  if  she 
could  'a  bit  me,  but  1  was  just  as  pleasant  's  could 
be.  Land !  to  see  her  laying  there,  I  suppose  the 
poor  young  fellow  thought  she  was  all  gone.  He 
meant  well.  I  wish  he  had  seen  her  eating  apple- 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  151 

dumplings  for  dinner.  She  felt  better  'long  in  the 
first  o'  the  afternoon  before  he  come.  I  says  to  her, 
right  before  him,  that  I  guessed  them  dumplings  did 
her  good,  but  she  never  made  no  answer.  She  will 
have  these  dyin'  spells.  I  don't  know 's  she  can  help 
it,  but  she  need  n't  act  as  if  it  was  a  credit  to  any- 
body to  be  sick  and  laid  up.  Poor  Joe,  he  come 
over  for  me  last  week  another  day,  and  said  she  'd 
been  havin'  spasms,  and  asked  me  if  there  wa'n't 
something  I  could  think  of.  '  Yes,'  says  I ;  '  you. 
just  take  a  pail  o'  stone-cold  water,  and  throw  it 
square  into  her  face  ;  that  '11  bring  her  out  of  it ;  ' 
and  he  looked  at  me  a  minute,  and  then  he  burst  out 
a-laughing  —  he  could  n't  help  it.  He  's  too  good 
to  her  ;  that 's  the  trouble." 

"  You  never  said  that  to  her  about  the  dump- 
lings ? "  said  Aunt  Polly,  admiringly.  "  Well,  / 
should  n't  ha'  dared ; "  and  she  rocked  arid  knitted 
away  faster  than  ever,  while  we  all  laughed.  "  Now 
with  Mary  Susan  it 's  different.  I  suppose  she  does 
have  the  neurology,  and  she  's  a  poor  broken-down 
creature.  I  do  feel  for  her  more  than  I  do  for  Ada- 
line.  She  was  always  a  willing  girl,  and  she  worked 
herself  to  death,  and  she  can't  help  these  notions,  nor 
being  an  Ash  neither." 

"  I  'm  the  last  one  to  be  hard  on  anybody  that 's 
sick,  and  in  trouble,"  said  Mrs.  Snow. 


152  COUNTRY  ST-WATS. 

4 

"  Bless  you,  she  set  up  with  Ad'line  herself  three 
nights  in  one  week,  to  my  knowledge.  It 's  more  'n 
I  would  do,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  as  if  there  were  dan- 
ger that  I  should  think  Mrs.  Snow's  kind  heart  to  be 
made  of  flint. 

"  It  ain't  what  I  call  watching,"  said  she,  apolo- 
getically. "  We  both  doze  off,  and  then  when  the 
folks  come  in  in  the  morning  she  '11  tell  what  a  suf- 
ferin'  night  she  's  had.  She  likes  to  have  it  said  she 
has  to  have  watchers." 

"  It 's  strange  what  a  queer  streak  there  is  run- 
ning through  the  whole  of  'em,"  said  Aunt  Polly, 
presently.  "  It  always  was  so,  far  back  's  you  can 
follow  'em.  Did  you  ever  hear  about  that  great- 
uncle  of  theirs  that  lived  over  to  the  other  side  o' 
Denby,  over  to  what  they  call  the  Denby  Meadows  ? 
We  had  a  cousin  o'  my  father's  that  kept  house  for 
him  (he  was  a  single  man),  and  I  spent  most  of  a 
summer  and  fall  with  her  once  when  I  was  growing 
up.  She  seemed  to  want  company :  it  was  a  lone- 
some sort  of  a  place." 

"  There  !  I  don't  know  when  I  have  thought  o' 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  looking  much  amused.  "What 
stories  you  did  use  to  tell,  after  you  come  home, 
about  the  way  he  used  to  act !  Dear  sakes  !  she  used 
to  keep  us  laughing  till  we  was  tired.  Do  tell  her 
about  him,  Polly  ;  she  '11  like  to  hear." 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  153 

"  Well,  I  've  forgot  a  good  deal  about  it :  you  see 
it  was  much  as  fifty  years  ago.  I  was  n't  more  than 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old.  He  was  a  very  re- 
spectable man,  old  Mr.  Dan 'el  Gunn  was,  and  a  cap'n 
in  the  militia  in  his  day.  Cap'n  Gunn,  they  always 
called  him.  He  was  well  off,  but  he  got  sun-struck, 
and  never  was  just  right  in  his  mind  afterward. 
When  he  was  getting  over  his  sickness  after  the 
stroke  he  was  very  wandering,  and  at  last  he  seemed 
to  get  it  into  his  head  that  he  was  his  own  sister  Pa- 
tience that  died  some  five  or  six  years  before :  she 
was  single  too,  and  she  always  lived  with  him.  They 
said  when  he  got  so 's  to  sit  up  in  his  arm-chair  of  an 
afternoon,  when  he  was  getting  better,  he  fought  'em 
dreadfully  because  they  fetched  him  his  own  clothes 
to  put  on ;  he  said  they  was  brother  Dan'el's  clothes. 
So,  sure  enough,  they  got  out  an  old  double  gown, 
and  let  him  put  it  on,  and  he  was  as  peaceable  as 
could  be.  The  doctor  told  'em  to  humor  him,  but 
they  thought  it  was  a  fancy  he  took,  and  he  would 
forget  it ;  but  the  next  day  he  made  'em  get  the 
double  gown  again,  and  a  cap  too,  and  there  he  used 
to  set  up  alongside  of  his  bed  as  prim  as  a  dish.  When 
he  got  round  again  so  he  could  set  up  all  day,  they 
thought  he  wanted  the  dress  ;  but  no  ;  he  seemed  to 
be  himself,  and  had  on  his  own  clothes  just  as  usual 


154  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

in  the  morning ;  but  when  he  took  his  nap  after  din- 
ner and  waked  up  again,  he  was  in  a  dreadful  frame 
o'  mind,  and  had  the  trousers  and  coat  off  in  no  time, 
and  said  he  was  Patience.  He  used  to  fuss  with 
some  knitting-work  he  got  hold  of  somehow ;  he  was 
good-natured  as  could  be,  and  sometimes  he  would 
make  'em  fetch  him  the  cat,  because  Patience  used 
to  have  a  cat  that  set  in  her  lap  while  she  knit.  I 
was  n't  there  then,  you  know,  but  they  used  to  tell 
me  about  it.  Folks  used  to  call  him  Miss  Dan'el 
Gunn. 

"  He  'd  been  that  way  some  time  when  I  went 
over.  I  'd  heard  about  his  notions,  and  I  was  scared 
of  him  at  first,  but  I  found  out  there  was  n't  no  need. 
Don't  you  know  I  was  sort  o'  'fraid  to  go,  'Lizabeth, 
when  Cousin  Statiry  sent  for  me  after  she  went  home 
from  that  visit  she  made  here  ?  She  'd  told  us  about 
him,  but  sometimes,  'long  at  the  first  of  it,  he  used  to 
be  cross.  He  never  was  after  I  went  there.  He 
was  a  clever,  kind-hearted  man,  if  ever  there  was 
one,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  with  decision.  "  He  used  to 
go  down  to  the  corner  to  the  store  sometimes  in  the 
morning,  and  he  would  see  to  business.  And  before 
he  got  feeble  sometimes  he  would  work  out  on  the 
farm  all  the  morning,  stiddy  as  any  of  the  men  ;  but 
after  he  come  in  to  dinner  he  would  take  off  his  coat, 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  155 

if  he  had  it  on,  and  fall  asleep  in  his  arm-chair,  or  on 
a  1'unge  there  was  in  his  bedroom,  and  when  he 
waked  up  he  would  be  sort  of  bewildered  for  a  while, 
and  then  he  'd  step  round  quick  ;s  he  could,  and  get 
his  dress  out  o'  the  clothes-press,  and  the  cap,  and  put 
'em  on  right  over  the  rest  of  his  clothes.  He  was 
always  small-featured  and  smooth-shaved,  and  I  don' 
know  as,  to  come  in  sudden,  you  would  have  thought 
he  was  a  man,  except  his  hair  stood  up  short  and 
straight  all  on  the  top  of  his  head,  as  men-folks  had 
a  fashion  o'  combing  their  hair  then,  and  I  must  say 
he  did  make  a  dreadful  ordinary-looking  woman. 
The  neighbors  got  used  to  his  ways,  and,  land  !  I 
never  thought  nothing  of  it  after  the  first  week  or 
two. 

"  His  sister's  clothes  that  he  wore  first  was  too 
small  for  him,  and  so  my  cousin  Statiry,  that  kep' 
his  house,  she  made  him  a  linsey-woolsey  dress  with 
a  considerable  short  skirt,  and  he  was  dreadful 
pleased  with  it,  she  said,  because  the  other  one  never 
would  button  over  good,  and  showed  his  wais'coat, 
and  she  and  I  used  to  make  him  caps ;  he  used  to 
wear  the  kind  all  the  old  women  did  then,  with  a  big 
crown,  and  close  round  the  face.  I  've  got  some  laid 
away  up-stairs  now  that  was  my  mother's  —  she  wore 
caps  very  young,  mother  did.  His  nephew  that  lived 


156  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

with  him  carried  on  the  farm,  and  managed  the  busi- 
ness, but  he  always  treated  the  cap'n  as  if  he  was 
head  of  everything  there.  Everybody  pitied  the 
cap'n ;  folks  respected  him  ;  but  you  could  n't  help 
laughing,  to  save  ye.  We  used  to  try  to  keep  him 
in,  afternoons,  but  we  could  n't  always." 

"Tell  her  about  that  day  he  went  to  meeting," 
said  Mrs.  Snow. 

"  Why,  one  of  us  always  used  to  stay  to  home 
with  him ;  we  took  turns ;  and  somehow  or  'nother 
he  never  offered  to  go,  though  by  spells  he  would  be 
constant  to  meeting  in  the  morning.  Why,  bless 
you,  you  never  'd  think  anything  ailed  him  a  good 
deal  of  the  time,  if  you  saw  him  before  noon,  though 
sometimes  he  would  be  freaky,  and  hide  himself  in 
the  barn,  or  go  over  in  the  woods,  but  we  always 
kept  an  eye  on  him.  But  this  Sunday  there  was 
going  to  be  a  great  occasion.  Old  Parson  Croden 
was  going  to  preach ;  he  was  thought  more  of  than 
anybody  in  this  region  :  you  've  heard  tell  of  him  a 
good  many  times,  I  s'pose.  He  was  getting  to  be 
old,  and  didn't  preach  much.  He  had  a  colleague, 
they  set  so  much  by  him  in  his  parish,  and  I  did  n't 
know  's  I  'd  ever  get  another  chance  to  hear  him,  so 
I  did  n't  want  to  stay  to  home,  and  neither  did  Cousin 
Statiry  ;  and  Jacob  Gunn,  old  Mr.  Gunn's  nephew,  he 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  157 

said  it  might  be  the  last  time  ever  he  'd  hear  Par- 
son Croden,  and  he  set  in  the  seats  anyway ;  so 
we  talked  it  all  over,  and  we  got  a  young  boy  to 
come  and  set  'long  of  the  cap'n  till  we  got  back. 
He  hadn't  offered  to  go  anywhere  of  an  afternoon 
for  a  long  time.  I  s'pose  he  thought  women  ought 
to  be  stayers  at  home  according  to  Scripture. 

"  Parson  Ridley  —  his  wife  was  a  niece  to  old  Dr. 
Croden  —  and  the  old  doctor  they  was  up  in  the 
pulpit,  and  the  choir  was  singing  the  first  hymn  —  it 
was  a  fuguing  tune,  and  they  was  doing  their  best : 
seems  to  me  it  was  '  Canterbury  New.'  Yes,  it  was  ; 
I  remember  I  thought  how  splendid  it  sounded,  and 
Jacob  Gunu  he  was  a-leading  off  ;  and  I  happened  to 
look  down  the  aisle,  and  who  should  I  see  but  the 
poor  old  cap'n  in  his  cap  and  gown  parading  right 
into  meeting  before  all  the  folks  !  There  !  I  wanted 
to  go  through  the  floor.  Everybody  'most  had  seen 
him  at  home,  but,  my  goodness  !  to  have  him  come 
into  meeting  ! " 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Why,  nothing,"  said  Miss  Polly ;  "  there  was 
nothing  to  do.  I  thought  I  should  faint  away ;  but 
I  called  Cousin  Statiry's  'tention,  and  she  looked 
dreadful  put  to  it  for  a  minute  ;  and  then  says  she, 
'  Open  the  door  for  him  ;  I  guess  he  won't  make  no 


158  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

trouble,'  and,  poor  soul,  he  did  n't.  But  to  see  him 
come  up  the  aisle  !  He  'd  fixed  himself  nice  as  he 
could,  poor  creatur  ;  he  'd  raked  out  Miss  Patience's 
old  Navarino  bonnet  with  green  ribbons  and.  a  wil- 
low feather,  and  set  it  on  right  over  his  cap,  and  he 
had  her  bead  bag  on  his  arm,  and  her  turkey-tail  fan 
that  he  'd  got  out  of  the  best  room  ;  and  he  come 
with  little  short  steps  up  to  the  pew  :  and  I  s' posed 
he  'd  set  by  the  door  ;  but  no,  he  made  to  go  by  us,  up 
into  the  corner  where  she  used  to  set,  and  took  her 
place,  and  spread  his  dress  out  nice,  and  got  his  hand- 
kerchief out  o'  his  bag,  just 's  he  'd  seen  her  do.  He 
took  off  his  bonnet  all  of  a  sudden,  as  if  he  'd  forgot 
it,  and  put  it  under  the  seat,  like  he  did  his  hat  — 
that  was  the  only  thing  he  did  that  any  woman 
would  n't  have  done  —  and  the  crown  of  his  cap  was 
bent  some.  T  thought  die  I  should.  The  pew  was 
one  of  them  up  aside  the  pulpit,  a  square  one,  you 
know,  right  at  the  end  of  the  right-hand  aisle,  so  I 
could  see  the  length  of  it  and  out  of  the  door,  and 
there  stood  that  poor  boy  we  'd  left  to  keep  the  cap'n 
company,  looking  as  pale  as  ashes.  We  found  he  'd 
tried  every  way  to  keep  the  old  gentleman  at  home, 
but  he  said  he  got  f'erce  as  could  be,  so  he  did  n't 
dare  to  say  no  more,  and  Cap'n  Gunn  drove  him 
back  twice  to  the  house,  and  that's  why  he  got  in  so 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  159 

late.  I  did  n't  know  but  it  was  the  boy  that  had  set 
him  on  to  go  to  meeting  when  I  see  him  walk  in, 
and  I  could  'a  wrung  his  neck  ;  but  I  guess  I  mis- 
judged him ;  he  was  called  a  stiddy  boy.  He  mar- 
ried a  daughter  of  Ichabod  Pinkham's  over  to  Oak 
Plains,  and  I  saw  a  son  of  his  when  I  was  taking 
care  of  Miss  West  last  spring  through  that  lung 
fever  —  looked  like  his  father.  I  wish  I'd  thought 
to  tell  him  about  that  Sunday.  I  heard  he  was  wait- 
ing on  that  pretty  Becket  girl,  the  orphan  one  that 
lives  with  Nathan  Becket.  Her  father  and  mother 
was  both  lost  at  sea,  but  she  's  got  property." 

"  What  did  they  say  in  church  when  the  captain 
came  in,  Aunt  Polly  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Well,  a  good  many  of  them  laughed  —  they 
could  n't  help  it,  to  save  them ;  but  the  cap'n  he 
was  some  hard  o'  hearin',  so  he  never  noticed  it,  and 
he  set  there  in  the  corner  and  fanned  him,  as  pleased 
and  satisfied  as  could  be.  The  singers  they  had  the 
worst  time,  but  they  had  just  come  to  the  end  of  a 
verse,  and  they  played  on  the  instruments  a  good 
while  in  between,  but  I  could  see  'em  shake,  and  I 
s'pose  the  tune  did  stray  a  little,  though  they  went 
through  it  well.  And  after  the  first  fun  of  it  was 
over,  most  of  the  folks  felt  bad.  You  see,  the  cap'n 
had  been  very  much  looked  up  to,  and  it  was  his  mis- 


160  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

fortune,  and  he  set  there  quiet,  listening  to  the  preach- 
ing. I  see  some  tears  in  some  o'  the  old  folks'  eyes  : 
they  hated  to  see  him  so  broke  in  his  mind,  you 
know.  There  was  more  than  usual  of  'em  out  that 
day  ;  they  knew  how  bad  he  'd  feel  if  he  realized  it. 
A  good  Christian  man  he  was,  and  dreadful  precise, 
I  've  heard  'em  say." 

"  Did  he  ever  go  again  ?  "  said  I. 

"  I  seem  to  forget,"  said  Aunt  Polly.  "  I  dare 
say.  I  was  n't  there  but  from  the  last  of  June  into 
November,  and  when  I  went  over  again  it  was  n't 
for  three  years,  and  the  cap'n  had  been  dead  some 
time.  His  mind  failed  him  more  and  more  along 
at  the  last.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  he  did  do,  and 
it  was  the  week  after  that  very  Sunday,  too.  He 
heard  it  given  out  from  the  pulpit  that  the  Female 
Missionary  Society  would  meet  with  Mis'  William 
Sands  the  Thursday  night  o'  that  week  —  the  sewing 
society,  you  know  ;  and  he  looked  round  to  us  real 
knowing ;  and  Cousin  Statiry,  says  she  to  me,  under 
her  bonnet,  '  You  don't  s'pose  he  11  want  to  go  ? ' 
and  I  like  to  have  laughed  right  out.  But  sure 
enough  he  did,  and  what  do  you  suppose  but  he  made 
us  fix  over  a  handsome  black  watered  silk  for  him 
to  wear,  that  had  been  his  sister's  best  dress.  He 
said  he  'd  outgrown  it  dreadful  quick.  Cousin  Statiry 


AN  AUTUMN  HOLIDAY.  161 

she  wished  to  heaven  she  'd  thought  to  put  it  away, 
for  Jacob  had  given  it  to  her,  and  she  was  meaning 
to  make  it  over  for  herself  ;  but  it  did  n't  do  to  cross 
the  cap'n  and  Jacob  Gunn  gave  Statiry  another 
one  —  the  best  he  could  get,  but  it  was  n't  near  so 
good  a  piece,  she  thought.  He  set  everything  by 
Statiry,  and  so  did  the  cap'n,  and  well  they  might. 

"  We  hoped  he  'd  forget  all  about  it  the  next  day  ; 
but  he  did  n't ;  and  I  always  thought  well  of  those 
ladies,  they  treated  him  so  handsome,  and  tried  to 
make  him  enjoy  himself.  He  did  eat  a  great  sup- 
per ;  they  kep'  a-piling  up  his  plate  with  every- 
thing. I  could  n't  help  wondering  if  some  of  'em 
would  have  put  themselves  out  much  if  it  had  been 
some  poor  flighty  old  woman.  The  cap'n  he  was 
as  polite  as  could  be,  and  when  Jacob  come  to  walk 
home  with  him  he  kissed  'em  all  round  and  asked 
'em  to  meet  at  his  house.  But  the  greatest  was  — 
land !  I  don't  know  when  I  've  thought  so  much 
about  those  times  —  one  afternoon  he  was  setting 
at  home  in  the  keeping-room,  and  Statiry  was  there, 
and  Deacon  Abel  Pinkham  stopped  in  to  see  Jacob 
Gunn  about  building  some  fence,  and  he  found  he  'd 
gone  to  mill,  so  he  waited  a  while,  talking  friendly,  as 
they  expected  Jacob  might  be  home ;  and  the  cap'n 
was  as  pleased  as  could  be,  and  he  urged  the  deacon 
11 


162  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

to  stop  to  tea.  And  when  he  went  away,  says  he  to 
Statiry,  in  a  dreadful  knowing  way,  '  Which  of  us 
do  you  consider  the  deacon  come  to  see  ?  '  You 
see,  the  deacon  was  a  widower.  Bless  you  !  when 
I  first  come  home  I  used  to  set  everybody  laughing, 
but  I  forget  most  of  the  things  now.  There  was  one 
day,  though  "  — 

"  Here  comes  your  father,"  said  Mrs.  Snow. 
"  Now  we  mustn't  let  him  go  by  or  you'll  have  to 
walk  'way  home."  And  Aunt  Polly  hurried  out  to 
speak  to  him,  while  I  took  my  great  bunch  of  golden- 
rod,  which  already  drooped  a  little,  and  followed  her, 
with  Mrs.  Snow,  who  confided  to  me  that  the  cap- 
tain's nephew  Jacob  had  offered  to  Polly  that  sum- 
mer she  was  over  there,  and  she  never  could  see  why 
she  didn't  have  him  :  only  love  goes  where  it  is  sent, 
and  Polly  was  n't  one  to  marry  for  what  she  could 
get  if  she  did  n't  like  the  man.  There  was  plenty 
that  would  have  said  yes,  and  thank  you  too,  sir,  to 
Jacob  Gunn. 

That  was  a  pleasant  afternoon.  I  reached  home 
when  it  was  growing  dark  and  chilly,  and  the  early 
autumn  sunset  had  almost  faded  in  the  west.  It  was 
a  much  longer  way  home  around  by  the  road  than 
by  the  way  I  had  come  across  the  fields. 


A  WINTER  DRIVE. 


JT  is  very  hard  to  find  one's  way  in  winter  over 
a  road  where  one  has  only  driven  once  in 
summer.  The  landmarks  change  their  ap- 
pearance so  much  when  the  leaves  are  gone  that,  un- 
less the  road  is  straight  and  certain,  and  you  have  a 
good  sense  of  locality,  you  will  be  puzzled  over  and 
over  again.  In  summer  a  few  small  trees  and  a 
thicket  of  bushes  at  the  side  of  the  road  will  look  like 
a  bit  of  forest,  but  in  winter  you  look  through  them 
and  over  them,  and  they  disappear  almost  altogether, 
they  are  such  thin  gray  twigs,  and  take  up  so  much 
less  room  in  the  world,  though  you  may  notice  a  well- 
thatched  bird's-nest  or  some  red  berries,  or  a  few  flut- 
tering leaves  which  the  wind  has  failed  to  blow  away. 
There  is  a  bare,  thin,  comfortless  aspect  of  nature 
which  is  chilling  to  look  at  either  before  the  snow 
comes  or  afterward ;  you  long  for  the  poor  earth  to  be 


164  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

able  to  warm  herself  again  by  the  fire  of  the  summer 
sun.  The  white  birches'  bark  looks  out  of  season,  as 
if  they  were  still  wearing  their  summer  clothes,  and 
the  wretched  larches  which  stand  on  the  edges  of  the 
swamps  look  as  if  they  had  been  intended  for  ever- 
greens, but  had  been  somehow  unlucky,  and  were  in 
destitute  circumstances.  It  seems  as  if  the  pines  and 
hemlocks  ought  to  show  Christian  charity  to  these 
sad  and  freezing  relations. 

The  world  looks  as  if  it  were  at  the  mercy  of  the 
wind  and  cold  in  winter,  and  it  would  be  useless  to 
dream  that  such  a  time  as  spring  would  follow  these 
apparently  hopeless  days  if  we  had  not  history  and 
experience  to  reassure  us.  What  a  sorrowful  doom 
the  first  winter  must  have  seemed  to  Adam  if  he  ever 
took  a  journey  to  the  northward  after  he  was  sent 
from  Paradise !  It  must  have  been  to  him  a  most 
solemn  death  and  ending  of  all  vegetable  life,  yet  he 
might  have  taken  a  grim  satisfaction  in  the  thought 
that  no  more  apples  could  ever  get  ripe  to  tempt  him 
or  anybody  else,  and  that  the  mischief-making  fruits 
of  the  earth  were  cursed  as  well  as  he. 

In  winter  there  is,  to  my  mind,  a  greater  beauty 
in  a  leafless  tree  than  in  the  same  tree  covered  with 
its  weight  and  glory  of  summer  leaves.  Then  it  is 
one  great  mass  of  light  and  shadow  against  the  land- 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  1G5 

scape  or  the  sky,  but  in  winter  the  tracery  of  the 
bare  branches  against  a  white  cloud  or  a  clear  yellow 
sunset  is  a  most  exquisite  thing  to  see.  It  is  the  dif- 
ference between  a  fine  statue  and  a  well  painted  pict- 
ure, and  seems  a  higher  art,  like  that,  —  but  it  is 
always  a  puzzle  to  me  why  a  dead  tree  in  summer 
should  be  a  painful  thing  to  look  at.  One  instantly 
tells  the  difference  between  a  dead  twig  and  a  live 
one  close  at  hand.  Such  a  leafless  tree  cannot  give 
the  pleasure  that  it  did  in  winter.  Yet  it  looked  al- 
most the  same  in  cold  weather  when  it  was  alive ;  is 
it  our,  unreasoning  horror  of  death,  or  is  it  that  a  bit 
of  winter  in  the  midst  of  summer  is  like  a  skeleton 
at  the  feast  ? 

A  drive  in  a  town  in  winter  should  be  taken  for 
three  reasons :  for  the  convenience  of  getting  from 
place  to  place,  for  the  pleasure  of  motion  in  the 
fresh  air,  or  for  the  satisfaction  of  driving  a  horse, 
but  for  the  real  delight  of  the  thing  it  is  necessary  to 
go  far  out  from  even  the  villages  across  the  country. 
You  can  see  the  mountains  like  great  stacks  of  clear 
ice  all  along  the  horizon,  and  the  smaller  hills  cov- 
ered with  trees  and  snow  together,  nearer  at  hand, 
and  the  great  expanse  of  snow  lies  north  and  south, 
east  and  west  all  across  the  fields.  In  my  own  part 
of  the  country,  which  is  heavily  wooded,  the  pine  for- 


166  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

ests  give  the  world  a  black  and  white  look  that  is 
very  dismal  when  the  sun  is  not  shining ;  the  farm- 
ers' houses  look  lonely,  and  it  seems  as  if  they  had 
crept  nearer  together  since  the  leaves  fell,  and  they 
are  no  longer  hidden  from  each  other.  The  hills 
look  larger,  and  you  can  see  deeper  into  the  woods 
as  you  drive  along.  Nature  brings  out  so  many 
treasures  for  us  to  look  at  in  summer,  and  adorns 
the  world  with  such  lavishness,  that  after  the  frost 
comes  it  is  like  an  empty  house,  in  which  one  misses 
all  the  pictures  and  drapery  and  the  familiar  voices. 

This  was  a  drive  that  I  liked.  It  was  a  sunshiny 
midwinter  day,  with  a  wind  that  one  was  glad  to  fall 
in  with  and  not  try  to  fight  against,  and  the  great 
white  horse  ran  before  it  like  a  boat,  the  crooked 
country  roads  had  been  just  enough  smoothed  and 
trodden  by  the  wood  teams  to  make  good  sleighing. 
I  met  now  and  then  a  farmer  on  his  way  to  market 
with  a  load  of  fire-wood  piled  high  and  square  on  his 
sled,  and  the  oxen  were  frosted,  and  pushed  at  the 
yoke  and  bumped  together  awkwardly,  as  if  they 
could  not  walk  evenly  with  their  crooked  knees. 
There  was  a  bundle  of  corn-stalks  on  top  the  load* 
and  usually  the  driver's  blue  mittens  were  on  the 
sled  stakes,  with  the  thumbs  out  at  right  angles,  as  if 
some  spirit  of  the  woodlands  were  using  them  to 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  167 

show  the  protesting  hands  he  lifted  at  the  irreverence 
of  men.  It  was  many  years  before  I  ever  felt  very 
sorry  when  woods  were  cut  down.  There  were  some 
acute  griefs  at  the  loss  of  a  few  familiar  trees,  but 
now  I  have  a  heart-ache  at  the  sight  of  a  fresh  clear- 
ing, and  I  follow  as  sadly  along  the  road  behind  a 
great  pine  log  as  if  I  were  its  next  of  kin  and  chief 
mourner  at  its  funeral.  There  is  a  great  difference 
between  being  a  live  tree  that  holds  its  head  so  high 
in  the  air  that  it  can  watch  the  country  for  miles 
around,  —  that  has  sheltered  a  thousand  birds  and 
families  of  squirrels  and  little  wild  creatures,  —  that 
has  beaten  all  the  storms  it  ever  fought  with ;  such 
a  difference  between  all  this  and  being  a  pile  of 
boards ! 

I  believe  that  there  are  few  persons  who  cannot  re- 
member some  trees  which  are  as  much  connected  with 
their  own  lives  as  people  are.  When  they  stand  be- 
side them  there  is  at  once  a  feeling  of  very  great  af- 
fection. It  seems  as  if  the  tree  remembered  what  we 
remember  ;  it  is  something  more  than  the  fact  of  its 
having  been  associated  with  our  past.  Almost  every- 
body is  very  fond  of  at  least  one  tree.  Morris's  appeal 
to  the  woodman  struck  a  responsive  chord  in  many 
an  otherwise  unsentimental  heart,  —  but  happy  is  the 
man  who  has  a  lar^e  acquaintance,  and  who  makes 


168  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

friends  with  a  new  tree  now  and  then  as  he  goes  on 
through  the  world.  There  was  an  old  doctrine  called 
Hylozoism,  which  appeals  to  my  far  from  Pagan 
sympathies,  the  theory  of  the  soul  of  the  world,  of  a 
life  residing  in  nature,  and  that  all  matter  lives  ;  the 
doctrine  that  life  and  matter  are  inseparable.  Trees 
are  to  most  people  as  inanimate  and  unconscious  as 
rocks,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  good  deal  to 
say  about  the  strongly  marked  individual  characters, 
not  only  of  the  conspicuous  trees  that  have  been  civ- 
ilized and  are  identified  with  a  home,  or  a  familiar 
bit  of  landscape  or  an  event  in  history,  but  of  those 
that  are  crowded  together  in  forests.  There  is  a 
strange  likeness  to  the  characteristics  of  human  beings 
among  these,  there  is  the  same  proportion  of  igno- 
rant rabble  of  poor  creatures  who  are  struggling  for 
life  in  more  ways  than  one,  and  of  self-respecting, 
well-to-do,  dignified  citizens.  It  is  not  wholly  a  ques 
tion  of  soil  and  of  location  any  more  than  it  is  with 
us.  Some  trees  have  a  natural  vitality  and  bravery 
which  makes  them  push  their  roots  into  the  ground 
and  their  branches  toward  the  sky,  and  although  they 
started  to  grow  on  a  rock  or  on  the  sand,  where  we 
should  be  sure  that  a  tree  would  have  a  hard  struggle 
to  keep  alive,  and  would  be  stunted  and  dwarfed  at 
any  rate,  yet  they  grow  tall  and  strong,  and  in  their 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  169 

wealth  of  usefulness  they  are  like  some  of  the  world's 
great  men  who  rose  from  poverty  to  kingliness. 
How  easy  it  is  to  carry  out  the  likeness.  The  great 
tree  is  a  protection  to  a  thousand  lesser  interests,  a 
central  force  which  keeps  in  motion  and  urges  on  a 
thousand  activities. 

It  is  common  to  praise  a  man  more  who  has  risen 
from  obscurity  to  greatness  than  one  who  had  money 
and  friends  at  the  start,  but  there  is  after  all  little 
difference  in  the  amount  of  personal  exertion  that 
must  be  brought  to  bear.  If  a  man  or  a  tree  has  it 
in  him  to  grow,  who  can  say  what  will  hinder  him. 
Many  a  tree  looks  starved  and  thin,  and  is  good  for 
nothing,  that  was  planted  in  good  soil,  and  the  grand- 
est pines  may  have  struggled  among  the  rocks  until 
they  find  soil  enough  to  feed  them,  and  when  they 
are  fully  grown  the  ledges  that  were  in  the  way  of 
their  roots  only  serve  to  hold  them  fast  and  strengthen 
them  against  any  chance  of  overthrow.  There  is 
something  in  the  constitution  of  character  ;  it  is  vigor- 
ous and  will  conquer,  or  it  is  weak  and  anything  will 
defeat  it.  I  believe  that  it  is  more  than  a  likeness  be- 
tween the  physical  natures,  there  is  something  deeper 
than  that.  We  are  hardly  willing  yet  to  say  that  the 
higher  animals  are  morally  responsible,  but  it  is  im- 
possible for  one  who  has  been  a  great  deal  among 


170  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

trees  to  resist  the  instinctive  certainty  that  they  have 
thought  arid  purpose,  that  they  deliberately  anticipate 
the  future,  or  that  they  show  traits  of  character  which 
one  is  forced  to  call  good  and  evil.  How  low  down 
in  the  scale  of  existence  we  may  find  the  first  glimmer 
of  self-consciousness  nobody  can  tell,  but  it  is  as  easy 
to  be  certain  of  it  in  the  higher  orders  of  vegetable  life 
as  in  the  lower  orders  of  animals.  Man  was  the  latest 
comer  into  this  world,  and  he  is  just  beginning  to  get 
acquainted  with  his  neighbors,  that  is  the  truth  of 
it.  It  is  curious  to  read  the  old  stories  of  the  hama- 
dryads and  see  the  ways  in  which  the  life  'of  trees  has 
been  dimly  recognized.  They  mean  more  than  has 
been  supposed,  but  the  trees'  own  individuality  was 
ignored,  and  an  imaginary  race  of  creatures  invented, 
and  supposed  to  live  in  them  —  these  spirits  of  the 
trees  accounted  for  things  that  could  not  otherwise  be 
explained,  but  they  were  too  much  like  people,  the 
true  nature  and  life  of  a  tree  could  never  be  exactly 
personified. 

Most  trees  like  most  people  are  collected  into  great 
neighborhoods,  and  one  only  knows  them  in  com- 
panies, as  one  looks  at  a  strange  town  when  on  a 
journey  and  thinks  of  it  only  as  a  town  without  re- 
membering that  it  is  made  up  of  old  and  young  lives, 
each  with  its  own  interests  and  influence.  Perhaps, 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  171 

as  you  go  by,  you  notice  a  few  faces  in  the  street  or 
at  the  railway  station,  and  so,  when  a  country  road 
is  at  the  edge  of  some  woods  you  notice  the  woods, 
and  perhaps  say  to  yourself  that  there  is  a  fine  wal- 
nut-tree or  an  oak,  but  there  are  no  two  trees  that 
look  alike  or  are  alike,  any  more  than  there  are  two 
persons  exactly  similar  in  shape  or  nature.  It  is  a 
curious  thing  to  see  the  difference  of  race  so  strongly 
marked  —  an  oak  among  white  pines  is  like  an  Eng- 
lishman among  the  Japanese,  and  wholly  a  foreigner 
in  such  society.  There  is  a  nobility  among  trees  as 
well  as  among  men,  not  fancied  by  poets  but  real  and 
unaffected.  One  likes  to  see  such  a  grand  family  of 
oaks  as  that  at  Waverley,  and  is  delighted  at  the 
thought  of  their  long  companionship ;  and  what  is 
more  imposing  than  a  row  of  elms  standing  shoulder  to 
shoulder  before  a  fine  old  house  ?  They  have  watched 
the  people  come  out  for  the  first  time,  and  for  the 
last  time,  they  have  known  the  family  they  have  shel- 
tered. There  seems  to  be  often  a  curious  linking 
of  the  two  lives,  which  makes  a  tree  fade  and  die 
when  the  man  or  woman  dies  with  whom  it  has  been 
associated;  such  stories  are  common  in  every  village, 
—  there  is  a  superstition  that  the  withering  of  a  tree 
near  a  house  is  the  sign  of  impending  disaster  — 
many  persons  believe  that  there  is  something  more 


172  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

than  coincidence  and  chance  about  it,  and  it  may  be 
at  least  that  these  signs,  and  others  that  come  true, 
will  be  proved  some  day  to  be  veritable  warnings, 
to  break  the  force  of  a  blow  that  otherwise  would  be 
too  sudden  and  severe. 

Five  or  six  miles  from  the  village  I  left  the  road 
that  leads  down  to  the  sea  and  turned  off  toward  the 
hill  called  Agamenticus.  From  some  high  land  which 
has  to  be  crossed  first  there  is  a  fine  view  of  the 
northern  country  with  the  procession  of  mountains,  of 
which  Mt.  Washington  is  captain,  ranged  in  marching 
order  on  the  horizon.  Saddleback  and  its  comrades 
in  Deerfield  and  Strafford  brought  up  the  rear,  and 
they  were  all  pale  blue  in  the  afternoon  light.  The 
nearer  hills  looked  wind-swept  and  forlorn  and  the 
lowlands  desolate,  and  the  world  was  like  a  great 
garden  that  was  spoiled  and  blackened  by  frost.  The 
snow  glistened  and  the  wind  blew  it  off  the  edges  of 
the  great  drifts  as  if  it  were  the  spray  of  those  frozen 
waves.  The  smoke  was  coming  out  of  the  kitchen 
chimneys  of  the  farm-houses,  and  I  saw  faces  quickly 
appear  at  the  windows  as  I  went  by.  All  the  women 
hurry  when  they  hear  sleigh-bells  or  the  sound  of  a 
passer-by  in  those  lonely  neighborhoods,  and  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  tell  whether  you  give  most  pleasure  by  being 


A   WINTER  DRIVE.  173 

a  friend  who  will  tell  the  news  or  do  an  errand  along 
the  road,  or  by  being  a  stranger  who  drives  an  un- 
known horse.  Then  you  are  made  the  subject  of 
reflection  and  inquiry,  and  for  perhaps  a  day  or  two 
you  are  like  an  exciting  chapter  that  ends  abruptly  in 
a  serial  novel. 

Once  over  the  hills  there  came  in  sight  a  long 
narrow  pond  which  lies  at  the  foot  of  Agamenticus  ; 
and  as  I  passed  the  saw-mill  at  the  lower  end  by  the 
bridge  I  saw  a  well-worn  sled  track  on  the  ice,  and  I 
had  too  strong  a  temptation  to  follow  it  to  be  resisted. 
The  pond  seemed  like  a  river,  the  distance  was  not 
great  across  from  shore  to  shore,  and  the  banks  were 
high  and  irregular  and  covered  in  most  places  with 
pines.  I  had  heard  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
logging  going  on  in  the  region,  and  it  was  the  best 
possible  chance  to  get  into  a  swampy  tract  of  country 
which  is  inaccessible  in  summer,  and  which  I  have 
always  wished  to  explore.  For  perhaps  three  quar- 
ters of  a  mile  I  went  up  the  pond,  often  between  the 
rows  of  logs  which  were  lying  on  the  ice  waiting  for 
the  time  when  they  would  melt  their  way  into  the 
water  and  float  down  to  be  sawed.  I  found  a  cross 
track  which  led  in  the  direction  I  wished  to  take,  and 
once  in  the  woods  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  air  was 
still  and  clear  and  sweet  with  the  cold  and  resinous 


174  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

odor  of  the  trees.  The  wood-road  was  not  very 
smooth  and  the  horse  chose  his  own  way  slowly  while  I 
looked  around  to  see  what  could  be  seen.  The  woods 
were  almost  still,  only  the  blue  jays  cried  once  or 
twice,  and  sometimes  a  lump  of  snow  would  fall  from 
the  bough  of  a  tall  pine  down  through  the  branches 
of  the  lower  trees.  There  were  a  great  many  rabbit 
tracks,  those  odd  clover-leaf  marks,  deep  in  the  light 
snow  which  had  fallen  the  night  before,  and  there 
were  partridge  tracks  around  some  bushes  to  which  a 
few  dried  berries  were  still  clinging,  but  the  creatures 
themselves  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It  must  be  a 
dreadful  thing  to  be  lost  in  the  woods  in  winter  ! 
The  cold  itself  soon  puts  an  end  to  one,  luckily ;  but 
to  be  hungry  in  such  a  place,  and  cold  too,  is  most 
miserable.  It  makes  one  shudder,  the  thought  of  a 
lost  man  hurrying  through  the  forest  at  night-fall,  the 
shadows  startling  him  and  chasing  him,  the  trees 
standing  in  his  way  and  looking  always  the  same  as 
if  he  were  walking  in  a  treadmill,  the  hemlocks  hold- 
ing out  handfuls  of  snow  at  the  end  of  their  branches 
as  if  they  offered  it  mockingly  for  food. 

The  people  who  live  in  the  region  of  the  Agamen- 
ticus  woods  have  a  good  deal  of  superstition  about 
them  ;  they  say  it  is  easy  to  get  lost  there,  but  they 
are  very  vague  in  what  they  say  of  the  dangers 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  175 

that  are  to  be  feared.  It  may  be  like  an  unreasoning 
fear  of  the  dark,  but  sometimes  there  is  a  suggestion 
that  the  bears  may  not  all  be  dead,  and  almost  every 
year  there  is  a  story  told  of  a  wild-cat  that  has  been 
seen,  of  uncommon  size  ;  and  as  for  a  supernatural 
population,  I  think  that  passes  for  an  unquestioned 
fact.  I  have  often  heard  people  say  that  there  are 
parts  of  the  woods  where  they  would  not  dare  to  go 
alone,  and  where  nobody  has  ever  been,  but  I  could 
never  succeed  in  locating  them.  The  swamps  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  are  traversed  in  winter  pretty 
thoroughly  and  the  first  and  second,  and  sometimes 
even  the  third,  growth  of  pines  have  been  cut  off  from 
all  that  district,  so  the  land  has  all  been  walked  over 
at  one  time  and  another  —  since  there  are  few  trees 
of  the  older  generation  left  in  all  that  part  of  the 
town.  I  dare  say  there  is  a  little  fear  of  the  hill 
itself  ;  perhaps  a  relic  of  the  old  belief  that  the  gods 
had  their  abodes  in  mountains.  So  high  a  hill  as 
Agamenticus  could  not  fail  to  be  respected  in  this 
(for  the  most  part)  low-lying  country,  and  in  spite  of 
its  barely  seven  hundred  feet  of  height  it  is  as  prom- 
inent a  landmark  for  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  inland 
as  it  is  for  sailors  who  are  coming  toward  the  coast, 
or  for  the  fishermen  who  go  in  and  out  daily  from 
the  neighboring  shores.  I  have  often  been  asked 


176  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

about  the  legend  of  an  uncertain  St.  Aspenquid,  — 
whose  funeral  ceremonies  on  this  mountain  are  repre- 
sented as  having  been  most  imposing,  but  I  never 
could  trace  this  legend  beyond  a  story  in  one  of  the 
county  newspapers,  and  I  have  never  heard  any  tra- 
dition among  the  people  that  bears  the  least  likeness 
to  it. 

I  caught  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of  Aga- 
menticus  as  I  drove  through  the  woods  that  bright 
winter  day,  and  I  wished  it  were  possible  for  any 
one,  not  a  practiced  mountain  climber,  to  scramble  up 
through  the  drifts  and  over  the  icy  ledges.  I  should 
like  to  see  the  winter  landscape,  the  wide-spread  coun- 
try, the  New  Hampshire  mountains,  and  the  sea  ;  for 
one  can  follow  the  coast  line  from  Gloucester  on  Cape 
Ann  to  Portland  with  one's  unaided  eyesight ;  so  well 
planted  is  this  hill  which  might  be  called  the  watch- 
tower  on  the  western  gates  of  Maine. 

In  the  woods  there  was  the  usual  number  of  stray- 
away  trees  to  be  seen,  and  they  appealed  to  my  sym- 
pathy as  much  as  ever.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  see  an 
elm  warped  and  twisted  with  its  efforts  to  get  to  the 
light,  and  to  hold  its  head  above  the  white  pines  that 
are  growing  in  a  herd  around  it  and  seem  to  grudge 
it  its  rights  and  its  living.  If  you  cannot  be  just  like 
us,  they  seem  to  say,  more 's  the  pity  for  you  !  You 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  177 

should  grow  as  we  do  and  be  like  us.  If  your  nature 
is  not  the  same  as  ours  you  ought  to  make  it  so. 
These  trees  make  one  think  of  people  who  have  had 
to  grow  in  loneliness ;  who  have  been  hindered  and 
crowded  and  mistaken  and  suspected  by  their  neigh- 
bors, and  have  suffered  terribly  for  the  sin  of  being 
themselves  and  following  their  own  natures.  Yet  I 
have  often  seen  trees  who  seem  to  be  hermits  and 
recluses  of  their  own  accord  —  not  forced  absentees 
from  their  families.  Apple-trees,  in  spite  of  their 
association  with  the  conventional  life  of  orchards  and 
the  neighborhood  of  buildings,  do  not  seem  unhappy 
at  the  sunshiny  edge  of  a  piece  of  woods,  especially 
if  they  are  near  a  road.  Perhaps  they  like  living 
alone,  as  many  people  do  —  they  are  glad  to  be  freed 
from  the  restraints  of  society,  and  are  very  well  off 
where  they  are ;  though  a  lonely  domesticated  tree 
would  seem,  naturally,  to  be  most  forlorn,  an  elm 
among  pines  or  an  oak  among  hemlocks  seems  to 
draw  attention  to  its  sufferings  far  more  eagerly.  An 
apple-tree  seems  willing  to  make  itself  at  home  any- 
where, but  it  is  sure  to  get  amusingly  untidy  and  law- 
less, as  if  it  needed  to  be  preached  to  as  well  as 
pruned.  There  are  many  trees,  however,  that  always 
gravitate  into  each  other's  society  and  live  in  peace 
and  harmony  with  each  other  —  well  ordered  neigh- 
12 


178  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

borhoods  where  there  is  a  good  chance  for  everybody 
to  get  his  living. 

I  have  remembered  a  great  many  times  an  old  li- 
lac tree  that  I  once  saw  in  bloom  by  a  deserted 
farm-house.  It  was  in  so  secluded  a  place  on  a  dis- 
used road  that  it  could  not  be  sure  it  was  not  the 
last  of  its  race.  The  earth  was  washed  away  from 
its  roots,  and  it  was  growing  discouraged;  it  was  like 
a  sick  man's  face  at  a  window.  I  do  not  believe  that 
it  will  bloom  many  more  springs.  But  there  is  an- 
other solitary  tree  which  is  a  great  delight  to  me,  and 
I  go  to  pay  it  an  afternoon  visit  every  now  and  then, 
far  away  from  the  road  across  some  fields  and  past- 
ures. It  is  an  ancient  pitch-pine,  and  it  grows  be- 
side a  spring,  and  has  acres  of  room  to  lord  it  over. 
It  thinks  everything  of  itself,  and  although  it  is  an 
untidy  housekeeper,  and  flings  its  dry  twigs  and  sticky 
cones  all  around  the  short  grass  underneath,  I  have 
a  great  affection  for  it.  I  like  pitch-pines  better 
than  any  trees  in  the  world  at  any  rate,  and  this  is 
the  dearest  of  its  race.  I  sit  down  in  the  shade  of 
it  and  the  brook  makes  a  good  deal  of  noise  as  it 
starts  out  from  the  spring  under  the  bank,  and  there 
always  is  a  wind  blowing  overhead  among  the  stiff 
green  branches.  The  old  tree  is  very  wise,  it  sees 
that  much  of  the  world's  business  is  great  foolishness, 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  179 

and  yet  when  I  have  been  a  fool  myself  and  wander 
away  out  of  doors  to  think  it  over,  I  always  find  a 
more  cheerful  atmosphere,  and  a  more  sensible  aspect 
to  my  folly,  under  the  shadow  of  this  friend  of  mine. 
I  think  it  is  likely  to  live  until  the  new  houses  of 
the  town  creep  over  to  it,  past  Butler's  Hill,  and  the 
march  of  improvement  reaches  it  and  dooms  it  to  be 
cut  down  because  somebody  thinks  it  would  not  look 
well  in  his  yard,  or  because  a  street  would  have  to 
deviate  two  or  three  feet  from  a  straight  line.  How- 
ever, there  is  no  need  to  grow  angry  yet,  and  the  tree 
is  not  likely  to  die  a  natural  death  for  at  least  a  hun- 
dred years  to  come,  unless  the  lightning  strikes  it,  — 
that  fierce  enemy  of  the  great  elms  and  pines  that 
stand  in  high  places. 

There  is  something  very  sad  about  a  dying  tree. 
I  think  in  the  progress  of  civilization  there  will,  by 
and  by,  arise  a  need  for  the  profession  of  tree  doc- 
tors, who  will  be  quick  at  a  diagnosis  in  cases  of  yel- 
low branches  and  apt  surgeons  at  setting  broken 
limbs,  and  particularly  successful  in  making  the  de- 
clining years  of  old  trees  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
These  physicians  will  not  only  wage  war  against  the 
apple-tree  borers  and  the  plums'  black  knots,  but  a 
farmer  will  be  taught  to  go  through  his  woods  now 
and  then  to  see  .that  nothing  is  the  matter,  just  as  he 


180  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

inspects  his  cattle,  and  he  will  call  the  doctor  for  the 
elms  that  have  not  leaved  out  as  they  ought,  and  the 
oaks  that  are  dying  at  the  top,  and  the  maples  that 
warp  and  split  their  bark,  and  the  orchard  trees  that 
fail  to  ripen  any  fruit.  He  will  be  told  to  drain  this 
bit  of  ground  and  turn  the  channel  of  a  brook  through 
another,  —  time  fails  me  to  tell  the  resources  of  a  pro- 
fession yet  in  its  infancy !  It  is  a  very  short-sighted 
person  who  looks  at  the  wholesale  slaughter  of  the 
American  forests  without  dismay,  especially  in  the 
Eastern  States.  The  fast  drying  springs  and  brooks 
in  the  farming  districts  of  certain  parts  of  New  Eng- 
land show  that  mischief  has  already  been  done,  and 
the  clearing  of  woodlands  is  going  to  be  regulated  by 
law,  I  believe,  at  some  not  far  distant  period.  There 
ought  to  be  tree  laws  as  well  as  game  laws. 

I  thought  of  this  as  I  drove  on,  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  woods,  and  could  hear  more  and  more  plainly 
the  noise  of  the  lumberman  at  work  ;  first  the  ring- 
ing hack,  hack,  of  the  axes  against  the  live,  hard 
wood  ;  and  then  I  caught  the  sound  of  voices  as  the 
teamsters  shouted  to  each  other  and  to  their  oxen. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  great  deal  going  on,  as  if  there 
were  a  crowd  of  men  and  a  great  excitement,  but 
when  I  could  see  the  open  space  between  the  trees 
there  proved  to  be  in  all  five  or  six  placid-looking 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  181 

farmers  with  one  team  drawn  by  two  oxen  and  a 
shaggy,  unwilling  old  white  horse  for  leader.  This 
was  just  ready  to  start,  being  loaded  with  logs  to  be 
carried  out  to  the  pond,  and  it  was  lucky  that  we  had 
not  met  it,  for  the  snow  was  deep  and  soft  outside 
the  narrow  track. 

The  snow  was  trampled  and  covered  with  brush- 
wood and  fallen  boughs,  the  woods  looked  torn  to 
pieces  as  if  there  had  been  a  battle. .  "  This  is  the 
way  it  used  to  look  down  in  Virginia  in  war  times," 
said  John,  the  Captain  of  Horse,  who  was  driving 
me :  "  I  tell  you,  you  had  to  dodge  when  a  big  shell 
burst  among  the  pine-trees ;  there  would  be  a  crash- 
ing and  a  cracking  among  the  old  fellows  ! "  We 
stopped  and  spoke  to  the  teamster,  and  one  or  two  of 
the  choppers  who  were  near  by  came  to  the  side  of 
the  sleigh,  and  we  asked  and  told  the  news.  I  spoke 
of  a  fire  that  had  been  in  the  village  the  night  before, 
but  they  had  already  found  out  all  about  it.  It  is 
unaccountable  how  fast  a  bit  of  news  will  travel  in 
the  country,  it  is  a  proof  of  the  frequency  of  commu- 
nication between  farming  people,  —  you  need  only  let 
it  get  a  few  minutes'  start  of  you  in  the  morning  and 
it  will  beat  you  by  many  miles  on  a  day's  drive.  It 
is  not  that  a  man  starts  out  ahead  of  you  with  a  faster 
horse  and  tells  everybody  he  sees  along  the  road,  but 


182  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

this  invisible  telegraph  has  side-lines,  and  people  who 
live  at  the  end  of  long  lanes  and  on  lonely  cross 
roads  are  as  well  posted  as  those  on  the  main  thor- 
oughfares. 

It  would  be  too  slow  work  following  the  team,  so 
we  were  directed  back  to  the  pond  by  another  suc- 
cession of  paths.  I  noticed  the  bits  of  bright  color 
against  the  dull  green  of  the  woods  and  the  white- 
ness of  the  snow.  The  choppers  wore  red  shirts  and 
sometimes  blue  overalls,  and  there  was  a  much-worn 
brown  fur  cap,  with  long  ear-pieces  that  flapped  a 
good  deal  as  the  energetic  wearer  nodded  his  head  in 
explaining  our  way  to  us,  and  disputing  the  length  of 
different  cart-paths  with  one  of  his  companions.  I 
watched  a  man  creep  carefully,  like  a  great  insect, 
along  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  begin  to  lop  off 
its  branches.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  noise  of  the 
lumbermen  in  the  woods  must  be  very  annoying  to 
the  trees  and  wake  them  from  their  quiet  winter 
sleep,  like  a  racket  in  a  house  at  night.  The  scat- 
tered trees  that  were  left  standing  had  a  shocked  and 
fearful  look,  as  if  some  fatal  epidemic  had  slain  their 
neighbors.  Just  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  we 
crossed  a  little  brook,  busy  under  the  ice  and  snow, 
and  coming  out  to  scurry  and  splash  around  a  lichened 
rock  with  great  unconcern,  as  if  it  were  a  child  play- 
ing with  its  toys  in  the  next  room  to  a  funeral. 


A    WINTER  DRIVE.  183 

There  were  a  great  many  pines  notched  with  an 
axe  to  show  that  they  were  to  be  cut ;  about  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pines  in  all,  the  owner  told  us  he  was 
going  to  get  out  that  season,  and  they  had  so  far  been 
able  to  fell  them  without  doing  much  damage  to  those 
they  meant  to  leave  standing.  Some  of  the  stumps 
were  unusually  broad  ones.  They  last  many  years, 
and  so  the  tree  leaves  its  own  monument  when  it 
dies.  The  inscription  on  many  of  the  older  stumps 
in  those  woods  might  be  Lost  at  sea,  as  it  is  on  the 
stones  of  a  sea-port  burying-ground,  for  great  quanti- 
ties of  ship  timber  have  gone  from  the  Agamenticus 
woods  to  the  ship-yards  at  Portsmouth,  and  the  navy 
yard  across  the  river. 

On  my  way  back  to  the  pond  and  the  road  I  found 
a  place  I  remembered  crossing  in  my  childhood,  a 
marshy  bit  of  ground  and  a  small  pond  in  the  heart 
of  the  woods.  It  looked  exactly  as  it  had  that  early 
winter  day  so  long  ago,  and  I  remembered  that  I  had 
seen  witch-hazel  in  bloom  there  for  the  first  time,  and 
had  been  filled  with  astonishment  at  the  sight  of 
flowers  in  the  snow.  There  used  to  be  a  farm-house, 
now  destroyed,  at  the  side  of  the  mountain  to  which 
this  was  a  short  road  in  winter  when  the  ground  was 
frozen.  I  looked  around  for  the  witch-hazel,  but  I 
was  too  late  for  it,  it  was  out  of  bloom  and,  alas, 


184  COUNTRY  BY-WATS. 

many  flowers  beside !  else  I  might  have  thought  it 
was  only  yesterday  I  was  there  before,  that  bit  of  the 
world  had  been  so  unforgotten  and  unchanged  by 
time.  I  had  wondered  for  years  where  that  little 
pond  could  be.  I  had  begun  to  think  I  needed  a 
crooked  twig  of  the  uncanny  witch-hazel  itself  to  lead 
me  back  to  it. 

The  wind  seemed  to  be  making  a  louder  noise  than 
usual  when  I  came  out  from  the  stillness  of  the  woods 
to  the  open  country.  The  horse  was  glad  to  be  on  a 
better  road  and  struck  out  at  a  brave  trot,  and,  indeed, 
it  was  time  to  hurry,  for  it  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
winter  twilight  and  that  had  been  the  last  load  of 
logs  to  be  sent  that  day  from  the  clearing.  I  looked 
up  again  and  again  at  the  mountain,  and  I  noticed  a 
white  place  among  the  trees  where  there  were  cleared 
fields,  and  remembered  a  story  that  always  interested 
me,  that  there  was  once  a  small  farm  there  where  an 
old  Scotchman  lived  alone,  many  years  ago.  No  one 
knew  from  whence  he  came,  and  there  was  no  clew 
to  his  family  or  friends,  so  after  his  death  the  prop- 
erty that  he  left  fell  to  the  State.  There  is  some- 
thing very  strange  about  such  hidderi-away  lives,  and 
one  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  are  always  peo- 
ple who  have  watched  sadly  for  such  stray-aways  to 
come  home,  even  if  they  are  fugitives  from  justice, 
or  banished  with  good  cause. 


A   WINTER  DRIVE.  185 

On  the  main  road,  again,  I  met  a  dismal-looking 
little  clam-man  driving  back  to  the  sea.  He  and  his 
horse  both  looked  as  if  they  would  freeze  to  death  on 
the  way.  I  heard  some  clams  slide  and  clash  to- 
gether in  the  box  on  his  sled  as  we  turned  out  for 
each  other,  but  it  was  nearly  empty  and  I  had  seen 
it  full  in  the  morning,  so  I  suppose  he  was  contented. 
We  said  good-day,  and  he  went  on  again.  He  was 
a  little  bit  of  a  man,  and  his  eyes  looked  like  a  fish's 
eyes  from  under  the  edge  of  a  great,  rough  fur  cap. 
"  He  's  very  well  off,"  said  John.  "  I  know  where 
he  lives  at  the  Guuket."  So,  after  all,  I  pitied  the 
horse  the  most,  for  he  never  would  have  been  so 
shaggy  if  he  lived  in  a  barn  that  the  wind  off  the  sea 
did  not  blow  through  every  day,  from  one  end  to  the 
other. 

The  last  sight  I  had  of  the  mountain  the  top  of  it 
was  bright  where  the  last  nicker  of  the  clear,  yellow 
sunset  touched  it,  but  in  the  low-lands  where  I  was 
the  light  was  out,  and  the  wind  had  gone  down  with 
the  sun,  and  the  air  was  still  and  sharp.  The  long, 
cold  winter  night  had  begun.  The  lamps  were  lit 
and  the  fires  were  blazing  in  all  the  houses  as  I  hur- 
ried home. 


GOOD  LUCK:  A  GIRL'S  STORY. 


[T  seems  very  odd  now  to  remember  that  we 
talked  over  going  to  Windy-walls  for  so 
many  weeks  before  we  could  make  up  our 
minds  to  it.  We  thought  of  all  imaginable  reasons 
why  we  had  better  not  go,  and  we  all  felt  a  good  deal 
like  martyrs  when  we  were  forced  to  decide  at  last 
that  we  had  better  spend  the  summer  there.  It  was 
nine  miles  from  a  railroad  and  four  from  a  post-office, 
and  the  house  might  be  uncomfortable  ;  beside,  if  my 
mother  were  to  be  ill  nobody  knew  anything  about 
the  doctors.  The  truth  was  we  wished  to  spend  the 
summer  at  the  sea-shore.  We  had  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  last  four  or  five  summers  in  town,  but  in 
the  old  days  when  we  were  prosperous  we  lived  in  a 
house  by  the  sea  which  we  always  had  missed  sadly, 
and  now,  when  we  found  we  must  leave  the  city,  the 
thought  of  three  or  four  months  at  the  shore  was 


GOOD  LUCK.  187 

most  alluring.  But  my  elder  brother,  who  is  the 
most  sensible  member  of  the  family,  was  the  one  who 
decided  it,  for  he  convinced  us  that  it  would  be  much 
better  for  my  mother  to  be  inland.  At  first  it  had 
been  a  question  of  boarding  somewhere  in  the  coun- 
try, but  one  day  my  brother  Park  came  home  with 
the  news  that  the  people  who  had  been  living  in  an 
old  house  of  ours  in  New  Hampshire  were  going 
to  leave  it,  and  that  it  would  be  vacant  the  first  of 
June.  It  had  belonged  to  a  grand-uncle  of  my  father 
and  we  had  known  very  little  about  it ;  the  tenants 
were  elderly  people  and  had  been  there  so  long  that 
it  seemed  to  belong  to  them  more  than  to  us.  My 
younger  brother  Tom  and  I  were  dismayed  at  first, 
but  we  took  more  kindly  to  the  new  plan  when  my 
mother  proposed  that  we  should  go  together  to  put 
the  house  in  order,  a  few  days  before  the  general  flit- 
ting from  town. 

There  are  four  of  us,  my  mother,  my  two  brothers, 
—  Parkhurst,  who  was  then  in  the  medical  school,  and 
Tom,  who  was  to  enter  college  the  next  year,  —  and 
myself.  I  do  not  know  anything  more  unhappy  than 
not  having  an  elder  and  a  younger  brother.  It  is  a 
favorite  joke  of  mine  that  standing  between  them  one 
pulls  me  up  and  the  other  pulls  me  down,  and  so  my 
character  develops  symmetrically,  and  I  ought  not  to 


188  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

be  wanting  in  sympathy  or  experience.  When  we 
were  all  younger  we  had  lived  entirely  at  our  ease,  but 
of  late  years  we  have  had  reverses  of  fortune,  and  the 
Boston  fire  served  us  as  it  did  many  of  our  friends. 
It  has  been  very  close  sailing,  with  the  three  of  us 
to  send  to  school  and  to  college,  and  the  frightful 
taxes  on  real  estate  to  be  paid.  My  mother  insisted 
that  we  should  not  part  with  our  dear  old  home  if  we 
could  possibly  help  it,  and,  indeed,  property  had  de- 
creased so  much  in  value  that  it  could  have  been  sold 
only  at  a  great  sacrifice,  although  it  was  so  comfort- 
able and  stood  in  such  a  pleasant  part  of  the  town. 
I  have  no  doubt  it  was  thought  extravagant  by  some 
people  that  we  should  stay  there,  though  we  managed 
to  live  on  without  getting  in  debt,  but  now  that  Tom 
was  to  enter  college  we  knew  we  must  rent  the  old 
house  and  so  increase  our  income.  Park  had  had 
money  enough  of  his  own  to  pay  the  expenses  of  his 
education,  and  he  hoped  to  go  over  to  Europe  the 
next  winter ;  then  my  mother  and  1  were  to  board 
somewhere  and  Tom  would  be  in  Cambridge.  We 
hated  to  think  of  breaking  up,  it  seemed  very  hard 
to  us,  and  we  knew  that  we  might  never  again  be  to- 
gether in  the  dear  old  fashion,  even  though  my  mother 
could  ever  take  the  house  again,  which  was,  to  say 
the  least,  doubtful.  She  was  often  in  ill  health  and 


GOOD  LUCK.  189 

the  change  would  be  very  sad.  My  brothers  and  I 
would  have  given  anything  if  in  any  way  we  could 
have  made  it  possible  for  her  to  stay ;  if  we  could 
have  made  sure  she  might  always  have  everything 
she  needed.  I  do  not  think  we  should  have  minded 
being  poor  half  as  much  if  it  had  not  been  for  her. 

I  can  see  now  what  a  blessing  these  years  were  to 
us  ;  we  know  the  worth  of  money  a  thousand  times 
better,  and  we  are  richer  now  in  a  great  many  ways 
because  we  were  once  poor,  my  brothers  and  I ;  while 
we  have  friends  whose  love  for  us  nothing  can  make 
us  doubt.  I  am  willing  to  say  that  we  often  used  to 
grumble,  but  I  find  there  are  just  as  many  things  I 
want  that  I  cannot  buy  now,  even  though  I  have 
more  money.  One  does  not  naturally  go  into  such 
personalities  as  these,  but  for  the  sake  of  my  story  I 
wished  you  to  know  something  of  its  characters  to 
begin  with. 

We  grew  more  and  more  resigned  to  the  thought 
of  taking  Uncle  Kinlock's  house.  Tom  was  seen 
looking  over  his  fishing-tackle  in  the  hope  of  finding 
trout-brooks,  and  I  began  to  think  more  kindly  of  the 
summer  in  the  country,  and  to  make  little  plans  of 
my  own.  Tom  and  I  thought  it  the  best  fun  in  the 
world  to  go  to  Hilton  a  week  before  the  rest  to  put 
the  house  in  order ;  indeed,  I  think  it  was  the  pleas- 


190  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

antest  week  of  the  whole  summer.  I  should  like  to 
tell  you  the  whole  story  of  it,  but  I  remember  that 
we  reached  the  village  late  one  evening,  and  in  the 
morning  Tom  came  to  the  door  of  the  country  hotel 
with  a  weather-beaten  old  horse,  and  after  we  had 
collected  some  provision  from  the  shops,  and  had 
loaded  part  of  our  luggage  into  the  back  of  the 
wagon,  we  started  off  for  the  five  miles'  drive,  feeling 
ourselves  master  and  mistress  of  the  house  already. 
It  was  a  perfect  day ;  I  had  seen  almost  nothing  of 
the  country  all  the  spring,  and  I  think  I  had  never 
felt  more  pleasure  at  being  alive  than  I  did  that 
morning  ;  the  wind  that  blew  about  among  the  hills 
was  so  fresh  and  sweet,  and  it  was  one  of  the  June 
days  which  make  you  feel  as  one  does  in  October 
weather.  The  clover  and  daisies  were  all  in  bloom  ; 
I  never  saw  so  many  birds  together  in  all  my  life.  I 
began  to  long  for  my  mother  to  come,  and  I  said  over 
and  over  again  how  glad  I  was  that  she  was  going  to 
spend  the  summer  there.  I  remembered  delightedly, 
what  I  had  often  forgotten  before,  that  she  was  so 
fond  of  the  country.  Tom  and  I  sang  a  good  deal 
at  the  top  of  our  voices,  there  being  no  audience,  and 
we  were  sorry  we  had  no  farther  to  go,  though  the 
horse  was  slow  and  the  road  was  rough,  and  up  hill 
and  down  all  the  way.  We  watched  the  great  white 


GOOD  LUCK.  19  J 

clouds  blow  over,  and  caught  sight  of  one  mountah 
or  great  hill  after  another,  far  and  near  —  and  some' 
times  we  stopped  a  little  while  to  let  the  horse  rest 
where  it  was  so  pleasant  that  we  really  could  not  go 
on.  Tom  saw  some  woods  which  gave  fair  prom- 
ises of  game,  arid  brooks  which  he  said  were  just  the 
places  for  whole  congregations  of  trout,  and  he  thought 
it  was  the  most  delightful  bit  of  country  he  ever  had 
seen  in  his  life.  Some  children  whom  we  met  on 
their  way  to  school  looked  at  us  with  great  curiosity 
and  interest,  and  even  the  least  of  the  shy  sun-bonnets 
knew  that  we  were  strangers  and  foreigners,  and  they 
all  stood  still  to  look  after  us  when  we  had  passed. 

We  were  in  a  great  hurry  to  see  the  house,  and  the 
last  mile  or  two  seemed  long.  We  had  been  told  that 
it  was  on  a  hill,  and  we  looked  for  it  in  vain  for  some 
time  and  thought  it  must  have  burned  down,  until  we 
had  come  through  some  thick  woods  and  the  road  had 
turned,  and  then  it  was  in  full  view  half  a  mile  beyond. 
It  certainly  was  not  charming  at  first  sight.  It 
looked  gray  as  if  it  had  never  been  painted,  and  there 
were  a  few  tall,  sharp  spruces  in  a  row  at  one  side. 
It  was  a  square,  Windless  house  with  two  great  chim- 
neys, and  it  stood  nearly  at  the  top  of  a  hill  which 
would  have  looked  higher  anywhere  else  than  there 
at  the  outskirts  of  the  mountains.  The  road  wound 


192  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

along  at  the  side  of  the  hill,  and  down  below  us  we 
could  hear  the  noise  of  a  small  river  at  the  bottom 
of  the  valley.  The  house  looked  squarer  and  grayer 
as  we  came  nearer,  and  we  agreed  it  was  exactly  like 
Uncle  Kinlock  himself,  whom  neither  of  us  had  ever 
seen  within  our  recollection.  There  were  two  or 
three  other  houses  in  sight  within  a  third  of  a  mile, 
and  it  was  like  coming  into  a  village  at  last,  for  the 
last  three  miles  had  been  almost  entirely  through  the 
woods.  The  fields  were  very  green,  and  the  slopes 
were  most  beautiful  in  the  sunshine,  and  all  the  wild 
roses  were  in  bloom.  It  was  certainly  a  very  pleas- 
ant country ;  one  could  not  find  fault  with  anything 
out  of  doors,  and  there  must  be  room  enough  at  any 
rate  in  the  old  square-roofed  house,  and  that  was  a 
good  thing.  I  had  almost  been  sure  of  a  room  under 
the  roof  too  low  for  me  to  stand  straight  in. 

We  had  to  go  to  the  nearest  neighbor's  for  the 
key,  and  had  a  hearty  welcome  from  the  mistress 
of  the  farm-house,  who  seemed  as  glad  to  see  us  and 
as  kind  as  if  we  had  belonged  to  her.  She  begged  us 
to  come  back  to  dinner  and  to  supper,  and  even 
wished  us  to  sleep  at  her  house  until  ours  was  fairly 
in  order  ;  but  since  our  chief  pleasure  in  coming  first 
had  been  the  prospect  of  keeping  house  ourselves,  we 
thanked  her  and  said  No.  There  could  not  be  any 


GOOD  LUCK.  193 

trouble  about  our  staying  in  the  house  from  dampness 
or  anything  like  that,  for  the  people  had  not  been 
long  gone  and  it  had  been  dry  weather,  and  Mrs.  Bir- 
ney  told  us  she  had  kept  the  windows  open  a  good 
deal  since  she  had  known  we  were  coming. 

We  hurried  back  and  unlocked  the  door,  and  Tom 
said  quickly,  with  a  little  whistle,  "  It  is  n't  bad, 
Polly  ; "  but  I  confess  that  the  first  impression  I  had 
was  of  its  being  very  dismal.  There  was  a  narrow 
hall,  with  an  awful  blue-gray  paper  covered  with 
fountains  which  looked  as  if  they  had  frozen  the  win- 
ter before  and  had  never  thawed  out.  There  was  a 
prim  mahogany  table  and  some  straight-backed  chairs 
along  the  wall,  and  as  for  the  parlor  it  was  so  dark 
that  I  rushed  to  open  the  shutters.  The  furniture 
was  not  bad  of  its  kind,  but  it  was  not  old  enough 
to  be  picturesque  or  quaint ;  it  was  an  entirely  dull 
and  commonplace  country  house  of  the  better  class. 
We  went  about  from  one  room  to  another ;  every- 
thing was  gray  and  brown  and  black,  so  I  longed 
for  the  bright  rugs  we  meant  to  bring,  and  to  put 
flowers  in  the  rooms,  and  for  some  of  our  own  pos- 
sessions to  make  it  look  a  little  home-like.  It  was  a 
place  to  be  homesick  in,  if  one  ever  was  homesick 
anywhere,  so  there  was  great  need  for  us  to  do  every- 
thing we  could  think  of  to  brighten  it  up.  It  was 
13 


194  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

with  great  wisdom  that  Tom  said  how  many  people 
would  go  out  of  town  that  summer  and  spend  no  end 
of  money  in  far  less  comfortable  places.  I  do  not 
know  whether  my  brave-hearted  young  brother  was 
trying  to  make  the  best  of  things  at  that  moment,  or 
whether  he  really  liked  the  place  from  the  very  first, 
as  he  always  insists  now  that  he  did. 

There  were  four  rooms  on  each  floor :  two  large 
ones  and  two  somewhat  smaller,  beside  the  kitchen  ; 
and  there  was  a  garden  which  was  beginning  to  show 
a  royal  crop  of  weeds  though  the  flowers  were  bloom- 
ing too  ;  all  the  early-summer  company  of  old-fash- 
ioned flowers.  Indeed,  one  might  grow  strongly  at- 
tached to  this  old  place  in  time,  as  I  certainly  did, 
but  I  am  willing  to  confess  that  I  was  dreadfully  dis- 
appointed in  it  at  first.  Some  friends  of  mine,  Kate 
Lancaster  and  Nelly  Denis,  had  once  spent  a  delight- 
ful summer  at  a  fine  old  house  by  the  sea  and  I  had 
been  with  them  for  a  week  or  two,  so  I  had  foolishly 
framed  my  expectations  on  the  memory  of  that. 
However,  there  was  no  use  in  being  dismal,  and  our 
house  might  have  been  worse.  We  named  it  Windy- 
walls  before  we  finished  our  lunch,  which  was  the 
first  thing  to  be  thought  of  after  we  had  opened  the 
shutters  everywhere  and  Tom  had  unharnessed  the 
horse  and  unloaded  the  wagon.  Tom  thought  it  was 


GOOD  LUCK.  195 

a  very  good  name  ;  I  had  seen  it  in  a  novel  once. 
We  had  lunch  very  early ;  there  really  was  not  a 
great  deal  to  do  until  a  load  of  goods  could  be  brought 
up  from  the  village  ;  however,  we  were  busy  enough, 
and  the  old  place  soon  cheered  up  a  little,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  lonely  old  person  who  had  felt  the  need  of 
young  company. 

We  found  that  there  were  fire-places  in  almost 
every  room,  but  they  were  either  closed  up  or  had 
air-tight  stoves  before  them,  and  I  told  my  brother 
that  we  must  get  those  out  of  the  way  before  my 
mother  came  and  have  the  fire-places  open,  it  would 
be  so  much  pleasanter  ;  so  we  went  to  work  at  once 
in  the  room  we  had  chosen  for  hers;  and  if  ever 
there  were  two  forlorn-looking  creatures  they  were 
Tom  arid  I  when  we  had  finished,  for  there  was  an 
amazing  quantity  of  soot  and  ashes,  and  we  decided 
we  would  not  try  to  do  all  in  one  day.  In  the  sit- 
ting-room there  was  a  great  Franklin  stove  which  we 
wisely  left,  as  it  had  a  gallant  array  of  brass  orna- 
ments, and  we  brought  in  a  quantity  of  dry  wood 
and  made  fires  everywhere.  In  the  parlor  we  had 
great  trouble  because  the  chimney  seemed  so  choked, 
and  you  cannot  imagine  our  sorrow  and  dismay  when 
a  clumsy,  half-fledged  chimney-swallow  tumbled  down 
—  luckily  into  the  cold  ashes  at  one  side  the  fire,  and 


196  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

lay  there,  giving  miserable  chirps  now  and  then.  We 
put  out  that  fire  quickly  enough !  and  when  we  found 
that  the  poor  bird  was  badly  hurt  by  its  fall  Tom 
killed  it  and  we  took  a  little  vacation  in  order  to  at- 
tend its  funeral  under  a  currant  bush  in  the  garden. 

"  But  we  ought  to  have  some  andirons,"  said  I,  as 
we  went  back  to  the  house,  "  there  must  be  some, 
somewhere  ;  everybody  used  to  have  andirons."  And 
Tom  said  perhaps  there  were  some  in  the  garret,  so 
to  the  garret  we  went ;  and  here  was  a  great  satisfac- 
tion, for  the  oldest  furniture,  as  was  not  long  since 
the  fashion,  had  been  stored  under  the  rafters,  and 
we  found  some  fine  old  chairs  which  only  needed  a 
little  brushing  to  be  made  again  the  chief  pride  and 
ornament  of  the  house.  There  were  andirons  enough, 
both  iron  and  brass  ;  but  the  latter  had  become  vari- 
ous shades  of  green  and  black,  and  our  first  question 
to  Mrs.  Birney,  our  neighbor,  who  just  then  came  up 
the  creaking  stairs,  was  who  could  we  get  to  rub  them 
bright  again.  She  seemed  much  amused  at  our  en- 
thusiasm over  our  discoveries,  for  one  could  make  up 
a  history  of  the  household  customs  of  the  last  seventy- 
five  years  in  that  garret.  I  did  not  know  the  use  of 
half  the  things  until  Mrs.  Birney  told  me;  there 
were  spinning  wheels  for  wool  and  flax,  and  foot- 
stoves,  and  all  the  apparatus  for  cooking  before  an 


GOOD  LUCK.  197 

open  fire  ;  and  there  were  flax  combs  and  wool  cards 
and  candle  molds,  and  various  reels  and  trays,  and  all 
the  lanterns  that  had  lighted  the  footsteps  of  succes- 
sive generations.  We  carried  down  the  best  of  the 
chairs,  but  we  should  have  liked  to  stay  in  the  garret 
and  rummage  in  the  chests  until  dark,  if  there  ha'l 
not  been  our  own  rooms  to  put  in  order.  Mrs.  Bir- 
ney  had  taken  such  good  care  of  the  house  since  its 
tenants,  an  old  uncle  and  aunt  of  her  own,  had  gone 
away  that  we  found  little  to  do,  an$  we  were  very 
much  obliged  to  her  because  she  asked  us  to  drink 
tea  at  her  house  where  we  had  a  very  good  time.  I 
made  friends  at  once  with  her  niece,  who  was  a  pale- 
faced,  dark-haired  girl,  who  was  just  home  from  a 
seminary  where  she  was  fitting  herself  to  be  a  teacher. 
She  seemed  all  tired  out,  and  I  was  so  sorry  for  her. 
I  felt  as  if  she  were  really  a  great  deal  older  than  I, 
though  there  was  not  much  difference  in  our  ages, 
for  she  seemed  to  have  lost  every  bit  of  her  girlhood. 
I  think  one  advantage  of  city  life  is  that  there  is 
much  more  to  entertain  and  amuse  people  than  in  the 
country.  I  never  before  had  had  the  chance  to  know 
country  girls  intimately,  as  I  did  that  summer  ;  but 
the  more  thoughtful  ones  among  them  seem  to  me  to 
be  much  more  thrown  in  upon  themselves  and  to  be 
more  given  to  narrow  routine  and  a  certain  formality 


198  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

of  life  than  city  girls  are.  I  found  this  new  friend 
of  mine  knew  a  great  deal  more  than  I  about  school- 
books  ;  I  only  wish  I  were  half  so  good  a  scholar  ; 
but  the  more  I  thought  about  her  and  talked  with 
her  the  more  I  wished  she  would  read  novels  all  her 
summer  vacation  ;  good- tempered,  well-bred  English 
society  novels,  and  no  matter  if  some  of  them  were 
naughty,  for  she  could  only  see  how  much  better  it 
is  to  be  good.  I  wished  her  to  know  another  sort  of 
people  beside  the  teachers  and  scholars  she  was  al- 
ways with,  and  I  wished  to  make  her  world  a  little 
larger,  I  liked  her  so  very  much.  Tom  had  found  a 
crony  in  Mrs.  Birney's  son,  who  seemed  a  very  good 
fellow  and  a  sportsman  by  nature,  and  I  heard  them 
already  planning  a  long  tramp  in  search  of  trout ; 
for,  though  one  could  find  some  in  almost  any  of  the 
brooks,  there  was  capital  fishing  in  more  remote 
streams  among  the  hills,  and  I  could  see  Tom's  eyes 
flash  as  he  talked  in  half  whispers,  and  I  was  no 
longer  afraid  of  his  growing  tired  of  Windywalls  and 
its  surrounding  country. 

We  were  very  hungry  at  supper  time,  as  Mrs.  Bir- 
ney  had  evidently  expected  us  to  be  ;  we  were  very 
merry,  and  afterward  Annie  Birney,  the  niece,  and  I 
talked  a  while.  I  found  she  was  an  orphan,  and  1 
wondered  if  she  did  not  mind  coming  back  there  from 


GOOD  LUCK.  199 

her  school,  for  it  was  such  a  bare  house,  so  orderly 
and  clean,  and  in  a  way  so  comfortable ;  but  there 
was  only  a  great  yellow  county  map  on  the  wall  of 
the  sititng-room  where  they  lived,  and  the  few  books 
I  saw  were  not  at  all  in  the  line  of  her  really  fine 
scholarship.  I  wondered  if  she  did  not  find  life  un- 
comfortable ;  her  education  had  led  her  away  from 
her  family,  yet  what  she  had  got  from  her  books  was 
a  dry  and  useless  sort  of  learning,  unless  for  the  sake 
of  its  being  imparted  to  possible  scholars  by  and  by. 
She  was  certainly  no  happier,  and  her  life  did  not 
reach  out  to  other  people's  lives  any  more  because  of 
it.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  that  she  was  meant  for  a 
teacher,  but  I  suppose  she  would  not  have  been  con- 
tented with  any  other  employment.  It  seems  to  me 
that  nature  designs  very  few  people  to  be  scholars,  but 
when  so  many  make  a  failure  of  life  we  are  greatly 
surprised.  But  we  are  apt  to  say  that  they  had  a 
good  education,  when  in  reality  it  was  the  worst  edu- 
cation in  the  world  for  them,  since  they  were  not 
fitted  to  do  their  work.  The  result  of  education 
should  be  to  elevate  one's  uses,  but  sometimes  a  stu- 
dent reminds  one  of  the  cheap  wooden  box  in  which 
his  books  are  packed.  We  certainly  have  different 
capacities  for  assimilation  of  mental  food,  and  I  think 
that  to  be  gifted  with  a  tenacious  memory  and  a  brain 


200  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

that  is  not  constructive,  and  a  little  heart  that  will  al- 
ways be  poor  and  have  nothing  to  give,  is  a  most  mel- 
ancholy state  of  affairs.  There  is  a  certain  kind  of 
character,  which,  if  it  tries  to  be  a  scholar,  is  a  miser 
with  its  wealth,  because  it  does  not  know  how  to 
spend  and  make  use  of  it. 

I  think  Annie  Birney  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  rut 
she  was  in,  and  that  being  with  young  people  who 
took  great  pleasure  in  life  was  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  to  her.  I  found  she  had  a  great  capac- 
ity for  enjoyment,  and  she  added  a  great  deal  to  our 
pleasure  at  Windywalls. 

I  knew  that  my  brother  wished  to  go  fishing  that 
very  next  day,  but  he  was  very  good  and  said  noth- 
ing about  it,  and  we  were  busy  until  night  putting 
things  to  rights,  for  early  in  the  morning  our  posses- 
sions came  over  from  the  village.  The  few  days  we 
were  alone  went  by  very  fast,  and  at  last  I  was  wait- 
ing impatiently  for  my  mother,  whom  Tom  had  gone 
to  bring  over  from  the  train.  It  was  nearly  tea-time 
when  they  reached  the  house,  and  I  was  delighted 
when  I  saw  how  pleased  my  mother  was.  I  had 
flowers  in  a  dozen  places,  and  some  wild  sweet-brier 
roses,  for  which  she  had  a  great  liking,  in  her  own 
room.  We  had  found  the  curtains  that  belonged 
on  the  high-posted  beds,  and  Mrs.  Birney  and  I  had 


GOOD  LUCK.  201 

put  them  up,  and  I  had  unpacked  the  books  and 
placed  them  always  with  the  bright  red  and  blue  ones 
on  top.  The  weather  had  luckily  given  sufficient 
excuse  for  a  little  fire  on  the  hearth  in  the  dining- 
room,  which  was  the  most  picturesque  part  of  the 
house,  with  its  tall  clock  and  slender-legged  side- 
board, and  there  was  some  pretty  willow-pattern 
crockery  to  put  on  the  table,  and  you  may  be  sure 
we  had  found  somebody  to  rub  the  andirons,  and  had 
filled  a  gingerpot  with  daisies.  I  think  I  never  was 
so  tired  in  my  life  as  I  was  that  night,  but  it  was  all 
forgotten  and  I  was  more  than  paid  for  it.  Nancy, 
an  old  servant  who  had  always  lived  with  us  and  who 
came  up  with  my  mother,  praised  Tom  and  me  to 
the  skies  and  said  she  should  think  we  had  been  at 
housekeeping  for  a  year,  though  I  am  afraid  when 
she  inspected  her  own  realm  she  did  not  have  so 
much  respect  for  us  as  at  first.  I  am  afraid  there 
were  distinct  traces  of  the  means  by  which  we  had 
reached  the  results  she  had  admired,  and  we  did  not 
know  how  to  keep  order  in  our  kitchen.  We  had 
bought  some  wild  strawberries  for  tea  from  a  little 
girl  who  came  knocking  at  the  door,  and  kind  Mrs. 
Birney  had  brought  us  a  pitcher  of  cream  and  an- 
other neighbor  farther  down  the  road  had  sent  us 
some  fresh  eggs,  and  we  felt  already  as  if  we  be- 


202  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

longed  to  the  neighborhood.  It  was  pleasant  weather 
day  after  day,  and  we  felt  at  first,  until  the  weather 
changed,  as  if  Windywalls  had  been  an  ill-deserved 
name  for  the  bleak  old  house  from  which  even  the 
trees  stood  back.  In-doors  it  grew  more  and  more 
home-like,  and  we  sent  for  some  striped  awnings 
which  we  had  had  in  the  city  and  put  them  over  the 
southern  windows  to  keep  out  the  glare  of  the  sun, 
and  they  made  the  house  look  as  if  it  were  a  grave 
old  lady  in  a  young  girl's  gay  trappings.  I  grew 
very  fond  of  the  hills,  and  we  were  continually  dis- 
covering new  drives  and  walks.  There  was  one 
mountain  which  I  always  saw  first  when  I  waked  in 
the  morning  and  which  at  last  seemed  like  a  friend 
to  me.  I  think  we  all  tried  to  live  as  entirely  a 
country  life  as  we  could,  and  not  to  be  city  people 
who  had  come  to  the  country  for  a  little  while^  mean- 
ing to  keep  apart  from  its  ways  as  much  as  possible. 
Of  course  there  were  inconveniences,  and  I  confess 
that  I  was  lonely  sometimes,  but  does  not  that  feeling 
come  to  one  anywhere  in  this  world,  after  all  ?  Peo- 
ple came  to  visit  us  now  and  then,  and  I  sincerely 
wish  I  could  spend  a  part  of  every  summer  at  Windy- 
walls,  in  spite  of  its  having  seemed  very  forlorn  and 
a  real  trouble  when  I  first  knew  that  I  must  go  there. 
I  had  time  to  do  so  many  things  which  were  always 


GOOD  LUCK.  203 

crowded  out  in  Boston,  and  I  do  like  housekeeping, 
and  I  must  confess  to  being  very  fond  of  doing  the 
every-day  things  which  most  girls  in  these  days  think 
very  stupid. 

So  we  settled  ourselves  down  in  peace  and  quiet- 
ness for  the  long  summer  among  the  hills  ;  and  now 
it  must  be  told  that,  before  my  mother  came,  while 
Tom  and  I  were  busy  getting  the  house  ready  and 
Mrs.  Birney  was  helping  us,  our  curiosity  was  in- 
tensely excited  by  what  she  said  of  Uncle  Kinlock. 
We  were  surprised  and  delighted  to  find  that  he  had 
been  considered  a  most  siugular  man,  and  it  seemed 
that  the  people  in  the  country  round  about  were  a 
good  deal  in  awe  of  him,  as  he  was  unfortunately  sub- 
ject to  violent  fits  of  bad  temper  and  had  very  strange 
ways.  It  was  believed  that  he  was  enormously  rich, 
though  we  poor  Leslies  who  were  his  heirs  had  had 
no  very  good  evidence  of  that,  and  we  heard  it  was 
believed  that  he  had  hidden  most  of  his  money  before 
he  died.  He  had  lived  alone  with  an  old  servant, 
whose  death  had  quickly  followed  his  own,  but  she 
had  told  a  great  many  curious  stories  about  him  ;  that 
sometimes  he  would  disappear  for  hours  together 
when  she  knew  he  had  not  gone  out  of  the  house  ; 
that  he  would  go  up-stairs  and  she  could  not  find  him 
though  she  had  often  taken  pains  to  search,  and  after 


204  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

a  time  he  would  come  down  the  staircase  just  as  usual, 
and  would  laugh  if  he  were  good-natured  or  swear  if 
he  were  not  when  she  asked  him  where  he  had  been. 
She  insisted  that  somewhere  in  the  house  he  had  a 
secret  room,  and  you  may  imagine  the  delight  with 
which  Tom  and  I  listened  to  such  a  bit  of  gossip  as 
this.  I  think  this  old  relative  of  ours  must  have 
been  a  little  crazy,  for  we  heard  that  sometimes  he 
would  not  speak  to  any  one  for  days  together. 

One  chilly  evening  we  were  all  together  in  the 
sitting-room,  reading  or  talking  before  the  fire  ;  it 
had  been  raining  all  day,  and  my  mother  said  with  a 
smile,  what  a  pleasant  day  it  had  been  in  the  house, 
and,  after  all,  this  was  just  the  weather  we  had  dreaded 
so  much  when  we  talked  about  coming  to  Hilton,  and 
she  added  by  way  of  warning  to  her  eager  and  easily 
provoked  children,  that  it  was  almost  always  so  in 
life  ;  that  most  of  our  misery  comes  from  our  fearing 
and  disliking  things  that  never  happen  at  all.  My 
brother  Park  looked  up  from  a  medical  book  of  os- 
tentatious size,  and  repeated  philosophically  the  old 
French  proverb,  "  Nothing  is  certain  to  happen  but 
the  unforeseen."  I  was  reading  a  little  and  watch- 
ing Tom  make  some  new  trout-flies  as  he  sat  by  me 
at  the  table  where  the  lights  were. 

"  O  Mary,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "  did  you  ever  tell 


GOOD  LUCK.  205 

mother  that  Mrs.  Birney  says  Uncle  Kinlock  had  a 
secret  room  somewhere  up-stairs,  and  that  he  hid  a 
great  deal  of  money  there  and  nobody  ever  found  it?" 

My  mother  laughed  heartily  :  "  O  Tom,  how  fool- 
ish !  —  he  never  had  a  great  deal  of  money  to  hide, 
and  where  could  there  have  been  a  secret  room  in 
this  square  plain  house  ?  I  wish  there  had  been  more 
good  closets  ;  I  don't  wonder  that  people's  garrets 
used  to  be  so  filled  in  old  times,  for  they  never  had 
any  other  place  to  put  things.  But  I  really  do  re- 
member your  father's  having  heard  this  story  and 
laughing  about  it,  too." 

**  Mrs.  Birney  said  that  Uncle  Kinlock  used  to  go 
up-stairs  and  disappear,  and  the  old  woman  who  lived 
with  him  used  to  hunt  for  him  everywhere,  and  after 
a  while  he  would  come  down  and  she  never  knew 
where  he  went.  Some  people  said  he  must  be  in 
league  with  the  devil,"  said  Tom  solemnly,  "  and  an 
old  fellow  who  hangs  round  the  blacksmith's  shop 
over  in  the  village  asked  me  yesterday  if  we  ever 
found  the  secret  chamber.  He  said  there  really 
was  one  ;  his  elder  brother  who  used  to  work  here 
told  him  so;  and  he  said,  too,  that  Uncle  Kiulock 
had  been  paid  for  some  woodland  he  had  sold  a  few 
days  before  he  died,  and  he  had  not  sent  the  money 
to  the  bank  and  nobody  could  find  it  in  the  house." 


206  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  There  were  several  people  here  during  his  ill- 
ness," said  my  mother.  "  Your  father  found  every- 
thing in  confusion  when  he  came  ;  I  am  afraid  the 
money  may  have  been  too  strong  a  temptation." 

"  But  where  could  there  possibly  be  another  room  ?  " 
said  I,  trying  again  to  puzzle  it  out,  though  Tom  and 
I  had  made  a  careful  survey  together,  days  before. 
"  There  are  the  four  rooms  on  each  floor,  and  the 
halls,  and  the  garrets,  and  the  closets."  And  Park 
said  :  "  I  dare  say  the  old  fellow's  time  hung  heavily 
in  rainy  weather  and  he  played  hide  and  seek  with 
the  housekeeper.  I  don't  doubt  he  was  under  that 
great  four-poster  in  the  room  overhead,  and  came 
chuckling  out  after  she  went  away,  with  feathers  all 
over  his  coat." 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  "  said  mamma,  with  an  amused 
little  laugh,  "  if  you  had  ever  seen  him  !  the  Grossest, 
stiffest  old  man  in  the  world !  " 

But  the  next  day  Tom  and  I  were  off  on  a  long 
walk  together,  and  as  we  were  toiling  up  a  hill  he 
said  :  "  Don't  you  wish  that  story  would  come  true 
about  Uncle  Kinlock's  money  ?  It  would  be  such  a 
lark  if  we  found  it  and  we  could  stay  on  at  the  house 
in  town  and  Park  could  go  abroad  with  all  sails  set, 
and  we  would  have  a  pair  of  saddle-horses." 

"  I  should  like  to  find  the  room,  at  any  rate,"  said 


GOOD  LUCK.  207 

I ;  "it  makes  me  think  of  the  regicide  judges,  and  I 
lie  awake  at  night  thinking  about  it  and  wondering 
where  it  could  be.  But  we  have  looked  everywhere, 
unless  it  is  in  one  of  the  chimneys." 

"  There  is  that  little  garret-room  over  the  outer 
kitchen,  where  the  little  four-paned  window  is,"  said 
Tom.  "  I  put  a  ladder  up  the  other  day  and  looked 
in,  but  there  was  nothing  there." 

"  So  did  I,"  I  said.  "  It  is  no  use,  Tom  ;  but  I 
wish  we  could  find  out  how  the  story  started.  I  wish 
we  did  have  more  money.  I  am  sorriest  when  I 
think  of  mamma's  having  to  give  up  the  house.  I 
know  she  dreads  it.  I  almost  wish  we  could  go  over 
to  Paris  with  Park  in  the  fall.  I  think  she  would 
like  to  go  abroad  again,  and  it  would  n't  seem  half  so 
bad  as  breaking  up  and  having  to  board  in  town. 
We  could  have  a  little  apartment  for  the  winter,  you 
know,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  for  Park  to  live  with 
us,"  but  poor  Tom's  face  lengthened  so  at  the  pros- 
pect of  being  left  alone,  that  I  said  nothing  more  of 
my  plan.  J  think  he  was  much  fonder  of  home  than 
either  Park  or  I,  though  that  was  saying  a  great  deal. 

"  I  am  going  to  grow  rich  as  fast  as  I  can,"  said 
he,  presently.  "  I  wish  I  were  ten  years  older,  and 
you  and  mamma  should  do  just  exactly  as  you  like. 
"When  I  think  she  misses  anything  she  used  to  have 


208  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

I  am  awfully  sorry,  and  it  keeps  costing  her  more 
and  more  for  me,  so  I  know  that  other  things  have 
to  be  given  up." 

"  Never  mind,  Tom,"  said  I,  "  everybody  knows  it 
is  money  well  spent.  I  only  wish  there  were  twice 
as  much  for  you." 

And  Tom,  who  was  tender-hearted  but  very  reluc- 
tant to  let  it  be  noticed,  said,  abruptly  :  "  I  wish  we 
had  brought  a  lunch ;  I  did  n't  have  half  enough 
breakfast  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  ;  it  was  like  dropping 
a  biscuit  down  a  well." 

"  There  is  one  thing  we  must  do,  Tom,"  said  I, 
after  a  while,  "  before  Aunt  Alice  comes  ;  you  know, 
we  have  never  opened  the  fire-place  in  that  room, 
and  she  is  apt  to  be  chilly.  I  think  she  would  like 
a  little  blaze  on  the  hearth.  Suppose  we  get  it  ready 
after  dinner  while  the  others  are  out  driving.  I  think 
there  is  only  a  fire-board  to  be  taken  away  and  we 
could  have  it  all  in  order  before  they  come  back. 
I  '11  rub  one  andiron  if  you  will  the  other." 

"  There  are  n't  any  more  brass  ones,"  said  Tom, 
"  but  we  can  give  her  the  funny  iron  dogs  ;  yes,  of 
course  we  will  do  it ;  are  you  sure  it  is  n't  bricked 
up  ?  " 

Park  was  going  to  drive  my  mother  to  the  village, 
and  they  started  after  an  early  dinner  and  Tom  and 


GOOD  LUCK.  209 

I  were  just  beginning  our  work,  when  an  old  clergy- 
man who  lived  some  distance  away  came  to  call  upon 
mamma,  and  of  course  we  wished  to  fill  her  place  as 
well  as  possible  in  giving  him  hospitality,  but  we 
were  dreadfully  afraid  he  would  stay  all  the  after- 
noon, though  we  were  really  so  glad  to  see  him. 
When  he  had  gone,  promising  to  come  back  to  drink 
tea  with  us  after  making  some  other  calls,  we  hurried 
up-stairs  and  were  soon  busy  again,  and  Tom  pulled 
away  the  fire-board  which  had  always  rattled  when 
there  was  a  breeze,  and  found  the  fire-place  was  open, 
so  there  would  be  only  the  pile  of  soot  and  ashes  to 
carry  down-stairs.  But  it  was  a  miserably  shallow 
fire-place,  not  half  so  deep  as  those  in  the  other 
rooms.  Tom  was  on  his  knees  before  it,  when  sud- 
denly he  stopped  and  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought. 
"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  with  a  good  deal  of  curiosity, 
but  he  did  not  answer,  as  he  rose  and  opened  the 
closet  door  which  was  on  that  side  of  the  room. 
There  was  nothing  inside  but  some  blankets  ;  it  was 
a  shallow  closet  with  two  shelves  at  the  top  and  some 
pegs  underneath,  and  Tom  said,  eagerly,  "  Come  round 
here,  Polly,"  and  I  followed  him  out  into  the  hall 
and  into  the  other  corner-room  at  the  back  of  the 
chimney,  where  he  opened  the  opposite  closet  door ; 
looked  in  at  Park's  coats,  and  gave  a  shout,  and 
14 


210  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

caught  me  by  the  shoulders  and  behaved  as  if  he  had 
gone  crazy.  "  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  get  in ;  it  's 
Uncle  Kinlock's  den,  don't  you  see  ? "  said  he. 
"  There  must  be  a  place  at  the  side  of  the  chimney 
between  the  closets,  they  don't  take  up  half  the 
room  ;  don't  you  see  the  chimney  goes  way  through 
and  the  back  of  this  closet  is  n't  the  back  of  the 
other  ?  Hi  yi !  "  and  my  brother  went  hopping 
about  on  one  foot  by  way  of  expressing  his  joy  at 
such  a  discovery.  I  could  not  understand  what  he 
meant  at  first,  but  I  thought  of  Kate  Lancaster  at 
once.  There  was  no  knowing  what  we  might  find, 
and  there  had  not  been  a  sign  of  a  secret  closet  in 
the  house  at  Deephaven.  Tom  began  at  once  to 
take  down  the  coats  from  their  pegs  ;  Park  was  very 
orderly,  but  we  threw  them  all  about  the  room.  We 
looked  carefully,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  any  way 
to  get  through,  and  at  last  we  gave  up  and  went  back 
to  the  front-room  closet,  and  searched  there  for  some 
sign  of  a  door  or  sliding  panel.  It  was  very  exciting, 
and  Tom  at  last  mounted  a  chair  and  looked  along 
the  shelves  as  if  he  thought  the  way  in  was  like  the 
entrance  to  a  dove-cote,  but  at  last  I  saw  him  reach 
over  and  pull  at  something ;  and  he  threw  a  bit  of 
wood  on  the  floor  and  then  another  and  pulled  out 
the  shelf  a  little  way,  and  kicked  the  back  of  the 


GOOD  LUCK.  211 

closet  which  seemed  to  be  loosened,  and  I  helped 
him  push  it  along  toward  the  chimney  and  saw  a 
dark  place  behind  it. 

We  could  not  get  the  door  far  back  enough  for 
any  light  to  go  in,  and  it  was  close  quarters  at  any 
rate,  to  push  through.  "  You  may  fall,  Tom,"  said 
I  fearfully,  my  courage  failing  me  all  of  a  sudden. 

"  Down  into  the  china  closet !  "  said  my  brother 
with  a  very  scornful  air,  as  if  he  thought  I  ought  to 
know  the  architecture  of  the  house  better  than  that. 
"  Let 's  have  a  light,  though  ;  there  's  a  candle  over 
on  the  dressing-table,"  and  I  hurried  across  the  room 
to  get  it. 

That  was  a  miserable  moment,  for  I  looked  out  of 
the  window  to  see  mamma  and  Parkhurst  driving 
slowly  toward  home  with  the  old  clergyman  following 
them,  blissfully  unconscious  of  their  being  most  un- 
welcome. 

Tom  groaned  when  I  told  him  :  "  We  must  be 
quick  and  shut  it  up,"  said  he,  and  I  was  only  too 
willing,  for  we  wanted  all  the  glory  for  ourselves. 

"There  are  all  Park's  clothes  scattered  over  his 
floor,"  said  Tom,  as  he  pushed  and  tugged  at  the 
panel,  and  I  flew  to  put  them  in  their  places  as  well  as 
I  could  and  had  just  succeeded  when  I  heard  mamma 
come  into  the  lower  hall.  Tom  had  gone  to  the  gar- 


212  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

ret  for  the  iron  dogs,  and  was  just  coming  back  with 
them,  serenely,  when  he  met  her  on  her  way  to  her 
room.  She  laughed  to  see  the  plight  we  were  in,  for 
we  were  gray  with  ashes,  and  thanked  us  for  open- 
ing the  fire-place ;  it  would  be  so  much  pleasanter  for 
Aunt  Alice.  "  You  are  very  thoughtful  children," 
said  she  in  her  tender  way,  which  always  went 
straight  to  our  hearts,  and  she  put  one  of  her  arms 
round  each  of  us  as  we  stood  before  her  and  kissed 
us.  Tom's  eyes  filled  with  tears  in  a  minute ;  he 
was  greatly  excited.  I  did  not  know  what  he  would 
do,  but  he  kissed  her  again  in  his  rough,  boyish  fash- 
ion of  two  or  three  years  ago,  when  he  had  not  prided 
himself  on  being  undemonstrative,  and  rushed  off 
down-stairs  two  or  three  steps  at  a  time. 

"  What  has  come  over  the  boy  ?  "  said  my  mother, 
as  I  followed  her  into  her  own  room.  "  Here  are 
some  letters  for  you,  and  your  Aunt  Alice  will  be 
here  day  after  to-morrow.  I  had  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Phillips,  who  is  in  Baltimore,  and  she  tells  me  that 
Mrs.  Anderson,  your  grandmother's  old  friend,  is  very 
ill  and  will  probably  live  only  a  few  days.  I  wish 
I  could  have  seen  her  again,  dear  old  lady,"  said 
mamma  sadly.  "I  was  so  sorry  to  refuse,  this 
spring,  when  she  wished  me  to  come  to  her,  but  it 
could  not  be  helped." 


GOOD  LUCK.  213 

I  knew  why  she  had  not  gone  ;  I  had  something 
of  Tom's  certainty  that  we  should  find  a  fortune  in 
the  secret  closet  into  which  we  had  almost  looked, 
and  I  hoped  that  mamma  might  never  have  to  give 
up  anything  again.  I  remembered  that  I  had  gone 
away  for  a  visit  just  after  she  had  quietly  declined 
this  invitation. 

"  She  was  always  very  fond  of  me,  I  think,"  said 
my  mother.  "  She  always  treated  me  as  if  I  were 
still  a  child  ;  I  suppose  she  could  not  realize  the 
flight  of  time.  I  have  felt  so  old  most  of  the  time 
these  last  ten  years  that  it  was  pleasant  to  have  some- 
body think  I  was  young,  and  it  always  carried  me 
back  to  my  girlhood  to  go  to  see  her." 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  again,"  said  I, 
and  mamma  looked  up  at  me  as  if  she  had  been  un- 
conscious for  a  minute  of  my  presence  ;  I  could  see 
she  was  much  saddened ;  she  always  clung  closely  to 
her  old  friends. 

"  The  letter  has  been  remailed  two  or  three  times, 
I  ought  to  have  had  it  days  ago,"  said  she,  and  then 
I  left  her  to  go  to  dress,  and  afterward  hurried  to  find 
Tom,  whom  I  found  entertaining  our  guest  with 
mamma  for  aid.  He  was  quite  himself  again,  and 
gave  me  a  careless  and  triumphant  nod.  He  whis- 
pered to  me  that  we  must  go  in  that  night  after  the 


214  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

others  were  asleep,  and  I  was  willing ;  but  Mr.  Ash- 
urst  was  soon  after  persuaded  to  stay  the  night  with 
us  and  occupy  that  room,  to  Tom's  and  my  great  dis- 
comfiture, though  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well,  for 
Park  would  certainly  have  heard  us  rattling  in  his 
wall,  and  mamma  was  always  a  light  sleeper.  It  was 
misery  to  be  obliged  to  wait  until  next  day. 

Next  morning  I  tried  to  make  Tom  ready  to  meet 
his  disappointment,  for  I  did  not  believe  we  should 
find  a  fortune,  but  at  any  rate  we  were  both  a  good 
deal  excited,  and  were  so  persistent  in  sending  my 
mother  and  Park  to  the  village  for  the  letters  and  to 
do  some  trumped-up  errands  of  ours,  that  they  at 
once  suspected  a  plot.  We  were  given  to  little  sur- 
prises, as  a  family,  and  mamma  accepted  the  situa- 
tion ;  and  though  it  was  a  hot  morning  she  went 
away  with  my  brother,  while  Tom  and  I  could  hardly 
wait  until  they  were  out  of  the  yard. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,  old  fellow !  "  said  I,  for  we 
had  flown  up-stairs,  and  I  lit  two  candles  while  he 
was  unfastening  the  panel.  He  pushed  his  way  in 
and  I  quickly  followed  him.  It  was  a  close  little 
place,  and  at  first,  coming  from  bright  daylight  into 
flickering  candle-light,  I  could  not  see.  It  was  like 
a  large  closet,  and  part  of  the  space  was  in  the  side 
of  the  chimney  like  an  arch  in  a  cellar,  dark  as  a 


GOOD  LUCK.  215 

pocket,  and  as  we  became  accustomed  to  the  light  we 
could  see  an  old  three-cornered  chair  before  a  small, 
upright  desk  ;  there  was  a  queer  old  lamp  fastened  to 
the  wall  with  a  candle  stuck  in  it,  and  some  books 
and  newspapers  were  scattered  about,  much  gnawed 
by  mice.  It  was  very  stuffy,  and  it  might  have  been 
a  safe  refuge  for  a  regicide  judge,  but  I  could  not  im- 
agine anybody's  wishing  to  stay  there  for  any  other 
reason  than  to  escape  pursuit,  which  might,  after  all, 
have  been  Uncle  Kinlock's  motive,  for  we  had  al- 
ready heard  that  his  housekeeper  sought  for  him  dil- 
igently. 

"  Hold  both  the  candles,  will  you  ?  "  said  Tom, 
"I  'm  going  to  look  in  the  desk,"  and  finding  it  was 
locked  he  wrenched  it  open  to  find  some  pigeon-holes 
full  of  old  letters  and  business  papers  and  a  great 
number  of  cuttings  from  newspapers,  but  there  was 
also  a  worn  leather  wallet,  which  we  opened  in  a 
hurry,  to  find  some  money  after  all ;  a  large  roll  of 
old-fashioned  bank-bills,  and  a  little  silver.  "  Do 
you  suppose  the  bills  are  good  for  anything  ?  "  said  I, 
unkindly  ;  "  were  not  people  given  a  certain  time  in 
which  to  redeem  them  ?  "  And  then  we  opened  a 
little  drawer  which  was  also  locked,  and  found  some 
gold  pieces  ;  there  were  two  or  three  hundred  dollars, 
and  most  of  the  coins  looked  quaint  and  old,  so  this 
was  real  treasure. 


216  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  It  is  not  a  very  great  fortune  after  all,"  said  I. 

"  Who  ever  thought  it  would  be  ?  "  said  Tom,  m 
his  every-day  tone.  "What  do  you  suppose  they 
will  say  when  they  come  home  ?  This  must  be  the 
money  that  was  paid  for  the  land ;  is  n't  it  silly  that 
no  one  ever  found  it  before  in  all  these  years  ! "  And 
really  I  do  not  think  he  was  half  so  disappointed  as  I 
was.  Tom  is  very  clever  at  adapting  himself  to  cir- 
cumstances. 

There  were  some  old  books  which  would  be  a  de- 
light to  my  elder  brother,  who  had  a  great  fancy  for 
such  things,  and  we  began  to  wish  for  his  return. 
We  read  many  of  the  letters  and  found  very  few  that 
were  interesting,  except  one  or  two  from  my  grand- 
father, but  there  were  some  that  my  father  had  writ- 
ten Uncle  Kinlock,  when  he  was  a  boy,  which  we 
were  very  glad  to  see. 

At  last  we  heard  the  wagon  coming  back  and  went 
in  triumph  to  tell  of  our  discovery.  "  We  have  found 
Uncle  Kinlock's  secret  chamber,"  said  Tom,  as  if  it 
were  of  no  consequence  to  him  whatever,  "  and  it  is 
a  sort  of  closet  in  the  chimney,  a  horrid  little  place, 
and  we  found  some  gold  pieces  and  a  lot  of  bank- 
bills  in  an  old  wallet,  but  I  don't  believe  those  are 
good  for  anything.  Come  up,  and  we  will  show  it  to 
you," 


GOOD  LUCK.  217 

But  I  noticed  that  mamma  looked  very  pale,  as  if 
something  had  happened,  and  Park  seemed  excited, 
and  neither  of  them  had  a  word  to  say,  so  I  begged 
them  to  tell  me  what  was  the  matter.  Mamma  came 
toward  Tom  and  me  and  held  us  fast  again  as  she 
had  done  the  clay  before.  "  O  my  dear  girl  and 
boy  !  "  said  she,  "  you  will  not  be  poor  any  more ; 
dear  old  Mrs.  Anderson  is  dead,  and  she  has  left  half 
her  money  to  me  for  my  mother's  sake.  You  have 
been  so  kind  to  me,  and  you  have  made  me  so  rich 
always  with  your  love,  and  I  never  knew  until  now 
how  much  I  have  wished  to  do  for  you." 

Tom  and  I  were  dazed  for  a  minute  and  we  all 
went  into  the  house  ;  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  us  all, 
and  we  could  not  take  it  in.  Tom  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  whistled  a  little,  and  drummed  on  the 
sill.  "  I  found  two  four-leaved  clovers  this  morn- 
ing," said  he,  presently,  "  there  they  are  on  the  table  ; 
I  say,  Park,  will  you  come  up  to  see  the  den  ?  " 

I  do  not  remember  that  we  changed  our  fashion  of 
living,  after  that  day,  though  earlier  in  the  season 
we  had  been  apt  to  find  fault  with  it,  and  to  wish  for 
something  that  we  did  not  have.  We  had  thought, 
too,  that  we  were  staying  at  Windywalls  because  we 
must,  but  we  did  not  leave  there  until  late  in  the  au- 
tumn, and  with  deep  regret  even  then,  which  shows 
the  idleness,  at  least,  of  quarreling  with  necessity. 


MISS  BECKY'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


BEFORE  her  brother,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Parsons, 
died,  Miss  Becky  and  he  had  often  talked 
about  going  back  to  Maine,  to  visit  their 
old  friends ;  but  somehow  the  right  time  had  never 
come,  and  now,  when  she  thought  of  going  all  by 
herself,  she  felt  as  if  it  were  her  duty  to  carry  out 
this  cherished  wish. 

To  be  sure,  it  would  be  sad  to  go  alone.  They 
had  often  said  that  there  would  be  many  changes, 
and  they  should  find  few  persons  who  remembered 
them ;  and  so  it  would  not  have  been  altogether 
cheerful,  at  any  rate.  The  minister  and  his  sister 
had  had  few  relatives,  and  most  of  those  were  dead, 
except  a  cousin  in  Brookfield,  whom  they  had  heard 
from  now  and  then,  but,  though  they  reminded  each 
other  of  the  changes  that  had  taken  place,  they  still 


MISS  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  219 

instinctively  thought  of  their  native  town  as  if  it 
were  very  nearly  the  same  as  it  used  to  be  when 
they  had  last  seen  it,  thirty  or  forty  years  before. 
Their  father  and  mother  had  died  when  they  were 
very  young,  and  Miss  Becky  had  lived  with  an  old 
aunt.  Her  brother  had  early  shown  unmistakable 
proofs  of  his  calling  to  the  ministry,  and  had  used 
most  of  his  share  of  their  small  fortune  for  his  educa- 
tion ;  and  he  had  been  settled  in  his  first  parish  only 
two  or  three  years  when  Miss  Becky  went  to  live 
with  him,  her  aunt  having  suddenly  died  and  Mr. 
Parsons  being  in  distress  for  a  housekeeper.  It 
proved  a  most  judicious  arrangement,  for  neither  of 
them  ever  married,  and  they  were  capitally  suited  to 
each  other,  having  that  difference  of  disposition  and 
similarity  of  tastes  which  make  it  possible  for  two 
people  to  live  together  without  being  too  often  re- 
minded of  the  fact  that  we  are  in  this  world  for  the 
sake  of  discipline,  and  not  enjoyment.  It  was  always 
said  that  Mr.  Parsons  had  been  disappointed  in  love 
while  he  was  pursuing  his  studies  at  the  theological 
school,  and  whether  he  took  this  for  an  indication 
that  he  would  be  more  useful  as  a  single  man  I  do 
not  know  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  in  spite  of  frequent  good 
chances  and  the  way  to  seize  them  being  made  easy 
for  him  by  members  of  his  parishes,  he  never  fell  in 


220  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

love  again  and  seemed  to  grow  better  satisfied  with 
life  year  by  year.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  and 
Miss  Becky  was  proud  of  him.  He  was  to  her  not 
only  the  best  of  preachers  and  kindest  of  men,  but 
the  most  admirable  of  gentlemen.  She  had  a  thor- 
oughly English  respect  for  the  cloth,  and  she  had 
been  born  in  the  days  when,  in  her  native  New  Eng- 
land town,  the  league  of  Church  and  State  was  pow- 
erful and  prominent,  and  the  believers  in  the  Con- 
gregational mode  of  worship  and  church  government 
were  able  to  look  down  upon  other  sects  as  dissenters. 
She  had  left  Brookfield  with  great  regret,  though  she 
had  not  known  how  dear  the  old  place  was  to  her  until 
she  came  to  leave  it.  She  had  never  been  very  happy 
at  her  aunt's,  for  she  never  had  liked  her  uncle  very 
well,  and  his  wife  was  a  fretful,  tiresome  sort  of 
woman,  who  made  it  so  uncomfortable  for  every  one, 
when  she  was  riot  pleased,  that  her  household  became 
cowards  in  never  daring  to  take  their  own  way  or  to 
have  minds  of  their  own  about  even  their  own  affairs  ; 
and  it  seemed  a  bright  future  to  Miss  Parsons  to  have 
a  home  of  her  own,  as  she  knew  her  brother's  house 
would  be,  for  she  was  to  have  all  the  good  fortune  of 
a  minister's  wife,  —  the  glory  and  honor  and  pride 
of  it,  with  none  of  the  responsibility  of  suiting  her- 
self to  the  parish,  which  in  a  country  town  is  some- 
times no  light  weight  to  carry. 


MISS  BECKT8  PILGRIMAGE.  221 

It  was  a  long  journey  to  take,  for  Mr.  Parsons 
had  been  called  to  a  church  in  Western  New  York, 
which  seemed  to  Miss  Becky  like  a  foreign  country. 
It  was  known  throughout  Brookfield  that  she  was 
to  start  one  Monday  morning,  and  on  Sunday  her 
departure  was  referred  to  in  the  long  prayer  before 
the  morning  sermon,  and  in  the  evening  meeting 
both  deacons  and  some  other  pillars  of  the  church 
prayed  devoutly  that  she  might  be  kept  from  danger 
and  peril  on  her  journey,  and  that  she  might  help  to 
scatter  the  good  seed  among  the  far-away  people 
with  whom  she  was  to  make  her  home.  It  was  al- 
most the  same  thing  as  if  she  were  going  to  be  a 
foreign  missionary,  and  she  was  very  solemn  about 
it ;  but  after  she  reached  Alton  it  seemed  as  civilized 
and  as  home-like  as  Brookfield  itself,  and  any  sacri- 
fice she  had  gloried  in  making  proved  to  have  been 
only  in  her  imagination.  Twice  since  then  Mr.  Par- 
sons had.  accepted  calls  to  other  parishes,  farther 
West,  and  for  the  last  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight 
years  they  had  been  in  Devonport,  which  had  started 
to  be  a  rival  to  New  York  city  itself.  It  had  been 
disappointed  and  left  at  one  side  by  the  railroads, 
which  presently  put  an  end  to  the  usefulness  of  a 
canal  which  had  brought  some  business  to  the  little 
town,  and  it  had  grown  very  dull  and  a  good  deal 


222  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

less  important  in  its  own  mind.  The  minister  and 
his  sister  had  lived  on  year  after  year  in  comfortable 
fashion.  The  salary  was  small,  but,  fortunately,  cer- 
tain, and  Miss  Becky  had  a  little  income  which  re- 
lieved her  from  any  feeling  of  dependence  or  uncom- 
fortable humility  toward  the  parishioners.  Her  hand 
had  been  asked  in  marriage  more  than  once  ;  but  she 
never  had  thought  it  best  to  change  her  situation,  for 
in  neither  case  had  it  appeared  likely  that  she  should 
better  herself,  and  she  felt  that  there  could  be  no 
reproach  attached  to  single-blessedness  while  she 
kept  her  brother's  house,  and  he  was  a  minister  of 
the  gospel.  It  gave  her  a  position  and  duty  for 
which  one  must  have  a  vocation. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  as  years  went  on,  Miss  Becky's 
heart  and  thoughts  were  oftener  and  oftener  turned 
toward  Brookfield ;  and  the  minister  himself,  from 
hearing  her  say  so  much  about  it,  came  to  have  as 
great  a  wish  as  she  to  go  back  to  New  England.  It 
is  always  home  to  all  the  people  who  go  away  from 
it  to  the  westward.  As  they  grow  older  they  love  it 
better  and  better,  and  it  is  a  strong  bond  between  the 
older  settlers  if  in  their  youth  they  had  some  knowl- 
edge of  each  other's  neighborhoods.  The  hearts  of 
New  England  travelers  are  often  touched  at  being 
asked  to  visit  some  old  people,  because  they  came 


MISS  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  223 

from  the  Eastern  States,  and  with  all  the  Westerner's 
pride  in  his  new  country  his  thoughts  often  turn 
fondly  toward  the  rising  sun.  There  is  in  this  gener- 
ation an  instinctive  homesickness  that  will  probably 
be  outgrown  in  the  next.  To  any  subject  of  the 
Queen  England  is  always  home,  and  a  Canadian  or 
a  New  Zealander  is  first  of  all  and  last  of  all  an  Eng- 
lishman. 

Miss  Becky's  brother,  for  some  months  before  his 
death,  had  not  seemed  so  strong  as  usual.  He  was 
several  years  older  than  she,  and  seemed  very  old  in 
that  part  of  the  country  where  most  of  the  people  are 
young  or,  at  furthest,  middle-aged.  He  had  never 
been  in  the  habit  of  taking  stated  vacations  (in  fact, 
it  had  been  a  matter  of  pride  and  principle  with  him 
not  to  do  so)  ;  but  early  in  the  summer  he  had  said 
he  should  take  a  rest  of  a  month  when  September 
came,  and  then  they  would  go  to  Brookfield.  He 
wished  to  verify  some  dates  and  records,  and,  though 
there  were  few  people  he  cared  much  to  see,  there 
were  a  good  many  tombstones,  and  the  old  town  itself 
was  dearer  to  him  than  he  ever  used  to  believe.  He 
had  been  hardly  more  than  a  boy  when  he  left  it,  and 
it  was  his  long-lost  boyhood  that  he  hoped  to  find 
again.  They  would  go  to  the  seashore  for  a  little 
while —  he  should  like  to  get  a  whiff  of  salt  air ;  and 


224  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

on  their  way  home  they  would  stop  in  New  York, 
where  there  was  to  be  a  general  meeting  of  the 
churches  that  was  of  great  interest  to  him. 

They  talked  about  their  plans  like  two  children  ; 
but  they  never  carried  them  out,  for,  as  I  have  said, 
the  minister  died.  Tt  was  a  great  shock  to  Miss  Becky, 
who  until  the  very  last  was  sure  that  a  change  of  air 
was  all  that  her  brother  needed  to  make  him  well  and 
strong  again ;  but  he  only  went  on  a  last  short  jour- 
ney instead,  and  all  the  clergy  in  that  corner  of  the 
world  assembled  to  follow  him,  and  they  preached 
about  him,  and  wrote  about  him  in  the  religious  news- 
papers, and  said  how  sadly  he  would  be  missed  and 
what  a  pillar  had  fallen.  And  then  the  world  went 
on  very  much  the  same  as  ever,  except  to  Miss  Becky, 
who  felt  as  if  it  had  come  to  an  end. 

She  stayed  on  in  Devonport  for  a  while,  until  she 
began  to  be  very  unhappy.  The  parish  was  hearing 
candidates  with  a  view  to  settling  a  successor  to  Mr. 
Parsons,  and  they  seemed  so  unfit  for  his  place  (as, 
indeed,  they  were,  being  mostly  young  and  puffed  up 
with  pride)  that  she  listened  to  them  with  great  im- 
patience and  distress,  and  she  made  up  her  mind,  by 
little  and  little,  that  as  soon  as  the  spring  opened  she 
would  go  to  Brookfield  and  make  a  long  visit.  After 
all,  there  were  a  good  many  people  in  that  place  and 


MISS  BECKT8  PILGRIMAGE.  225 

its  neighboring  towns  whom  she  wished  to  see,  and 
whom  she  thought  would  be  glad  to  see  her ;  and,  if 
she  did  not  care  to  visit,  she  had  it  in  her  power  to 
board  for  a  while,  and  the  more  she  thought  about  it 
the  more  in  a  hurry  she  felt  to  be  on  the  way.  She 
was  by  no  means  a  rich  woman  ;  but,  if  she  lost  noth- 
ing, she  would  have  enough  to  live  on  comfortably, 
since  she  spent  but  little  and  had  an  uncommon  fac- 
ulty of  making  that  little  go  a  long  way. 

The  journey  to  Boston  was  bewildering  and  tire- 
some to  her,  for  the  most  part ;  but  when  she  was 
fairly  started  one  morning  to  take  the  last  half-day's 
car-ride,  she  was  much  delighted,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  eagerly,  and  examined  the  faces  in  the 
car,  to  see  if  there  might  not  possibly  be  one  that  was 
familiar.  The  very  names  of  the  stations  were  de- 
lightful to  her  ears,  and  after  a  while  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  traveling  in  disguise  and  as  if  everybody  would 
be  overjoyed  if  she  only  told  them  who  she  was.  "  I 
have  n't  been  here  for  forty  years,"  she  told  the  con- 
ductor, after  he  had  answered  some  question  she  had 
put  to  him  ;  and  he  looked  at  her  curiously  (as  if  to 
see  whether  she  was  an  old  acquaintance,  she  thought), 
and  said  that  she  must  find  things  a  good  deal  changed. 
She  heard  a  gentleman  in  front  call  him  Mr.  Pres- 
cott,  and,  if  he  had  not  hurried  on,  she  would  have 
15 


226  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

asked  him  if  he  were  not  one  of  the  sons  of  an  old 
schoolmate  of  hers,  who  had  married  a  Prescott  and 
gone  to  live  in  Portland.  She  was  sure  he  had  a  look 
of  Adaline  Emery. 

It  was  a  great  pleasure  that  at  one  of  the  stations 
a  new-comer  took  a  seat  beside  her,  the  cars  being 
full.  She  was  a  woman  of  about  her  own  age,  and 
evidently  a  journey  was  a  matter  of  great  importance 
to  her.  So  Miss  Becky  felt  a  sympathy  for  her,  and 
ventured  to  say  that  she  had  been  in  the  cars  for 
nearly  two  days  and  nights,  after  her  companion  had 
asked  the  name  of  one  of  the  stations  which  she  had 
failed  to  hear. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you  have ! "  said  she,  looking 
at  Miss  Becky  with  respect.  "  Seems  to  me  I  could 
n't  stand  it,  noways ;  but  then  it  ain't  come  in  my  lot 
to  be  much  of  a  traveler.  Was  you  ever  this  way 
before  ?  " 

"  I  was  born  and  brought  up  down  in  Brookfield," 
answered  Miss  Becky ;  "  but  I  have  been  away  pretty 
near  forty  years.  I  wonder  if  you  are  acquainted 
about  there  any." 

"  Why,  I  was  raised  in  Brookfield,"  said  the  woman, 
"  and  I  've  got  a  brother  and  sister  living  there.  I  'm 
just  going  to  Brookfield  now,  to  stop  with  them.  I 
thought  it  was  a  great  while  since  I  was  there  :  but 


MI88  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  227 

you  beat  me.  I  was  there  nine  years  ago,  and  I  ex- 
pect I  shall  find  a  good  many  changes."  And  our 
two  friends  looked  at  each  other  searchingly,  and  in 
a  minute  a  glimmer  of  satisfaction  overspread  Miss 
Becky's  face.  "  I  declare  to  my  heart  if  you  are  n't 
Mahal y  Robinson  !  I  thought  you  looked  sort  of  nat- 
ural when  I  see  you  come  into  the  cars.  I  s'pose  you 
must  have  forgot  all  about  Rebecca  Parsons  by  this 
time."  But  her  friend  had  not,  and  they  grasped 
each  other's  hand  and  kissed  each  other  at  once,  and 
the  sudden  outburst  of  affection  was  most  amusing  to 
the  neighboring  passengers. 

"  Why,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  got  home,  seeing  you," 
said  Miss  Becky,  thinking  how  dreadfully  old  her 
friend  looked,  while  the  friend  thought  exactly  the 
same  thing  of  her,  and  each  flattered  herself  that  in 
her  case  time  had  left  but  little  trace  of  its  flight.  "  I 
forget  your  married  name  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Becky. 
I  did  know  it  at  the  time.  You  know  you  wrote  me 
just  after  I  went  out  West ;  but  I  always  think  of  you 
as  Mahaly  Robinson  —  same 's  when  we  went  to 
school  together." 

"  I  married  first  with  a  Sands;  but  I  lost  him  when 
we  had  only  been  married  three  years,"  said  Mahala, 
without  any  appearance  of  regret,  "  and  then  I  mar- 
ried Joshua  Parker,  of  Gloucester.  I  've  been  a  widow 


228  COUNTRY  B7-WAYS. 

now  these  fourteen  years.  He  was  a  ship-master  and 
used  to  sail  out  o'  Salem  when  I  first  met  with  him  ; 
and  after  that  he  was  master  of  the  Fleet  wing,  out 
o'  Boston  for  a  good  many  years.  He  was  lost  at 
sea.  She  was  never  heard  from  after  they  left  Cal- 
lao.  I  wa'n't  left  very  well  off  ;  we  'd  had  consider- 
able sickness,  and  his  father  and  mother  and  a  foolish 
sister  made  it  their  home  with  us  and  was  consider- 
able expense.  I  always  set  a  great  deal  by  Father 
Parker,  though.  He  was  a  real  good  man  and  he 
always  did  what  he  could.  He  got  frost-bit  down  to 
the  Banks,  one  winter,  and  bis  hands  and  feet  were 
crippled.  We  had  hard  scratchin'  one  spell :  but  my 
boys  and  girls  got  so  's  they  could  work,  and  then 
there  wa'n't  any  more  trouble.  I  've  had  a  good  deal 
to  be  thankful  for ;  but  I  've  seen  the  time  I  'd  a-laid 
down  and  died,  I  was  so  discouraged.  I  live  with  my 
youngest  daughter  now,  and  she  's  got  as  handsome  a 
little  farm  as  you  ever  see  and  a  good  husband.  He  's 
doing  well,  too.  They  are  always  thinking  o'  things 
to  please  me,  both  of  'em.  I  ain't  got  a  child  I've 
been  sorry  for,  and  that 's  a  good  deal  to  say.  There 's 
a  sight  of  risk  in  fetchin'  up  six  of  'em.  But  I  want 
to  know  how  it 's  been  with  you.  I  see  by  "  The 
Congregationalist "  that  your  brother  had  been  taken 
away. 


MISS  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  229 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Becky,  with  a  sigh.  "  He  was  a 
dreadful  loss  to  me.  We  'd  been  together  so  many 
years,  and  there  never  was  a  man  like  Joseph,  any 
way.  He  was  known  all  through  that  part  of  the 
West.  We  'd  talked  about  coming  on,  and  it 's  real  sad 
to  come  without  him ;  but  I  feel 's  if  it  was  just  what 
he  'd  want  nie  to  do,  if  he  knew  it.  I  hoped  I  should 
see  him  stand  up  and  preach  in  the  old  meeting-house. 
Some  of  his  sermons  were  thought  a  great  deal  of. 
I  could  n't  always  understand  the  deeper  thought  in 
'em,"  said  Miss  Becky,  proudly.  "  We  set  a  good 
many  times  to  come  on ;  and  we  did  get  as  far  as 
New  York  once,  to  the  meetings  of  the  American 
Board,  and  then  somehow  there  was  always  some 
place  we  thought  we  must  go  to  first,  out  West.  It 
ain't  that  we  've  stayed  right  in  the  same  place  all 
these  years,"  she  explained.  "  My  brother  used  to 
travel  about  a  good  deal.  Seems  to  me,  coming  back 
this  way,  I  miss  him  more  than  ever.  I  keep  think- 
ing o'  things  I  ought  to  tell  him  when  I  get  back  to 
Devonport.  It 's  been  right  hard  to  get  reconciled." 
"  Then  you  're  not  coming  back  to  settle  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Parker.  I  thought  first  that  perhaps  you  was. 
There,  we  're  a  getting  into  Portsmouth  ;  but  I  don't 
suppose  I  should  know  my  way  round.  I  lived  here 
'long  of  my  first  husband,  and  I  always  liked  the 
place." 


230  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

"  I  remember  coming,  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  to 
stop  with  my  aunt  Dennett  for  a  spell,  over  on  the 
Kittery  shore.  We  've  got  to  go  across  the  river, 
have  n't  we  ?  I  should  n't  wonder  if  you  could  see 
the  house.  My  sakes  alive, !  how  good  and  fresh  the 
salt  water  smells  !  Don't  it  ?  I  declare,  how  it  car- 
ries me  back ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Becky. 

"  The  wind  must  have  come  round  into  the  east," 
said  Mrs.  Parker,  wisely.  "  It  was  a  little  north  of 
west  when  I  started  this  morning,  and  L  thought  I 
should  have  a  good  day ;  but  then  we  're  going  right 
back  into  the  country.  Who  are  you  expecting  to 
stop  with  ?  " 

"  I  wrote  to  Cousin  Sophy  Annis,  because  I  've  been 
in  the  habit  of  hearing  from  her  every  year,  and  one 
of  her  sons  is  living  West,  and  has  stopped  with  us 
several  times.  I  did  n't  get  any  answer,  for  I  started 
off  pretty  sudden.  I  found  I  was  going  to  have  com- 
pany as  far  as  Syracuse.  I  can  go  to  the  tavern,  if  it 
don't  seem  to  be  convenient  for  Sophia.  I  don't  know 
but  it  would  be  just  as  well,  any  way,  for  I  feel  as  if 
I  was  almost  a  stranger.  I  should  n't  mind  the  ex- 
pense," she  added,  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  know  they  won't  let  you  go  to  no  tavern ; 
Brookfield  folks  will  have  altered  a  good  deal  if  they 
have  come  to  that ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Parker,  in  a 


MISS  BECKY'S  PILGRIMAGE.  231 

way  that  was  gratifying.  "  You  '11  find  more  that  is 
glad  to  see  you  than  you  've  any  idea  of.  If  you 
don't  find  anybody  a-waiting  for  you,  you  come  right 
home  with  me  to  Sister  Phebe's  ;  and  then  they  '11 
take  you  over  to  Sophy's,  after  tea  or  in  the  morning, 
just  as  you  are  a  mind  to.  You  know  it 's  right  on 
the  way  there,  and  Sophy  won't  think  nothing  of 
your  stopping  'long  of  me,  as  we  fell  in  with  each 
other  in  the  cars." 

But  it  seemed  very  lonely  to  Miss  Becky,  who  was 
tired  with  her  long  journey ;  and  she  became  uncer- 
tain of  her  reception,  and  almost  wished  she  had  not 
undertaken  the  pilgrimage.  She  began  to  understand 
how  changed  the  place  must  be,  and  how  little  it 
would  be  like  the  Brookfield  she  had  left.  And  when 
Mrs.  Parker  remembered  that  she  had  spoken  of  her 
brother's  preaching  in  the  old  meeting-house,  and  ex- 
plained that  it  had  been  torn  down,  to  make  place  for 
a  new  one,  the  year  before,  it  was  really  a  great  sor- 
row to  our  friend.  She  felt  that  if  it  were  not  for 
visiting  the  burying-ground  it  would  not  have  been 
worth  while  to  go  at  all. 

"  I  did  think  it  would  be  so  pleasant  to  set  in  the 
old  pew  again,  where  I  used  to  set  when  I  was  a 
girl,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  I  have  thought  just  how  it 
all  looked  so  many  times  !  "  As  they  neared  Brook- 


232  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

field,  the  country  grew  more  and  more  familiar,  and 
Miss  Becky  looked  out  of  the  car-window  all  the  time, 
and  was  again  in  high  spirits.  She  told  the  names  of 
the  hills,  and  when  she  saw  a  farm-house  that  she  re- 
membered, not  far  from  the  railway,  she  was  perfectly 
overjoyed,  and  hurriedly  collected  her  carpet-bag,  and 
her  basket,  and  her  big  pasteboard  box,  that  held 
some  treasures  which  she  had  been  afraid  to  trust  to 
her  trunk.  "  Do  tell  me  if  I  look  all  right,  Mahaly," 
she  said,  quickly  passing  her  hand,  in  its  loose  black- 
thread  glove,  over  the  front  of  her  bonnet  and  her 
neat  frisette.  "  I  don't  s'pose  I  am  fit  to  look  at. 
I  've  always  had  to  keep  myself  looking  nice,  on  Jo- 
seph's account,  being  a  minister,  and  we  were  always 
subject  to  a  good  deal  o'  company,"  she  remarked ; 
but  Widow  Parker  said  she  looked  as  if  she  had  only 
traveled  from  the  next  town,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
more  they  were  standing  on  the  platform  of  the  Brook- 
field  station. 

There  were  only  strangers  waiting  there,  and  they 
were  mostly  little  boys,  and  Miss  Becky  felt  a  strange 
sense  of  desolation ;  but  presently  some  one  greeted 
Mrs.  Parker  (who  was  much  flustered)  with  great 
cordiality,  and  she  walked  off,  without  giving  a 
thought  to  her  fellow-traveler,  who  stood  still,  look- 
ing anxiously  at  every  face  that  passed,  as  if  she 


MISS  BE  CRTS  PILGRIMAGE.  233 

hoped  to  find  it  familiar.  She  held  the  box  and  the 
bag  arid  the  basket,  and  suddenly  wondered  if  her 
trunk  had  come,  and  looked  down  the  platform  the 
wrong  way,  and  distressed  herself  with  the  thought 
that  it  had  not  been  put  off  the  train,  since  it  was  not 
in  sight.  The  little  boys  strolled  away,  and  the  rest 
of  the  people  began  to  disappear  also,  and  Miss 
Becky  remembered  her  companion,  and  wondered 
what  could  have  become  of  Mrs.  Parker,  who  had 
seemed  so  friendly  ;  and  just  then  some  one  came 
driving  up  to  the  platform.  It  was  a  young  woman, 
and  she  jumped  out  quickly  and  came  toward  our 
friend. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  Miss  Parsons  ?  "  asked  the 
girl,  pleasantly. 

"  Why,  yes,  dear,"  said  poor  Miss  Becky,  who  had 
been  almost  ready  to  cry. 

"  Grandmother  said  that  I  had  better  come  round 
by  the  depot,  but  the  rest  of  us  were  certain  you 
would  n't  be  here  until  to-morrow.  How  do  you 
do  ? "  and  she  kissed  the  old  lady  as  if  she  really 
cared  something  about  her.  "  We  are  all  so  pleased 
because  you  are  coming.  Now  let  me  see  to  your 
baggage.  We  can  take  the  trunk  right  into  the  back 
of  the  wagon." 

"  I  was  just  feeling  afraid  it  had  n't  come,"  said 


234  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

Miss  Becky;  but  the  station-master  asked  if  that 
were  not  the  one  which  he  was  just  going  to  drag 
into  the  depot,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  they  were 
in  the  wagon,  driving  away. 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  too  tired,"  said  the  girl. 
"  We  shall  have  to  ride  three  or  four  miles  ;  but  then 
it  is  nice  and  cool." 

"  I  always  liked  to  ride,"  said  Miss  Becky,  "  and  it 
is  so  refreshing  to  get  out  of  the  cars.  There !  you 
don't  know  what  a  difference  there  is  between  the  air 
here  and  out  West ;  but  now  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
who  you  are?" 

"  I  forgot  you  did  n't  know,"  said  the  girl,  laugh- 
ing. "  We  have  talked  so  much  about  you  that  I  for- 
got you  did  n't  know  me  just  as  well  as  I  do  you. 
I  'm  Annie  Downs,  and  my  mother  was  Julia  Annis." 

"  I  can't  believe  Sophy  Annis  has  got  a  grand- 
daughter as  old  as  you ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Becky. 
"  Why,  I  don't  feel  any  older  than  ever  I  did,  but  she 
was  four  or  five  years  older  than  I." 

"  I  have  a  brother  and  sister  older  than  I,"  said 
Annie ;  "  but  they  're  both  married.  We  lived  at 
Freeport ;  but  I  suppose  you  knew  that  father  died 
some  years  ago,  and  grandmother  was  getting  feeble, 
so  she  wanted  mother  and  me  to  break  up  and  come  to 
live  with  her.  I  have  been  keeping  the  town  school 


MISS  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  235 

for  two  years.  It 's  very  near,  you  know.  Mother's 
brother  carries  on  the  farm  —  Uncle  Daniel.  He 
says  he  remembers  you,  and  your  coming  to  say  good- 
by  just  before  you  went  West;  but  grandmother  says 
he  was  too  young." 

"  I  guess  he  does  remember  me,"  said  Miss  Becky, 
with  a  sudden  affection  for  this  relative  of  hers.  I 
know  he  was  a  dear  little  fellow,  running  round  the 
kitchen.  It  was  in  cold  weather,  I  know.  I  was 
going  to  kiss  him,  and  he  hid  under  the  table."  This 
was  very  pleasant  and  seemed  to  bring  the  strange 
relatives  much  nearer.  "  Your  mother  was  the  old- 
est, and  was  quite  a  girl  then.  I  remember  hearing 
of  your  father's  being  taken  away  ;  but  I  always 
thought  of  you  all  as  little  bits  of  children." 

"  There,  I  did  feel  so  lonesome  to-day  !  "  said  Miss 
Becky  to  old  Mrs.  Ann  is  and  her  daughter,  that  even- 
ing ;  "  but  I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  got  back  among  my 
own  folks.  I  like  out  West ;  but  somehow  I  never 
have  felt  at  home  there  as  I  do  here,  and  after  Jo- 
seph's death  I  saw  it  was  being  with  him  that  had 
kept  me  from  feeling  strange.  And  I  don't  know 
why  it  is,  either,  for  there  are  a  good  many  people  in 
our  place  from  New  England  and  everybody  is  free 
and  neighborly." 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  Miss  Becky  more  than 


236  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

the  welcome  she  received  from  the  townspeople.  She 
said  over  and  over  again  that  she  had  no  idea  she 
should  find  so  many  people  who  remembered  her, 
and  the  excitement  her  visit  seemed  to  make  was 
deeply  gratifying.  It  was  exactly  the  way  her  brother 
was  treated  when  he  went  back  to  visit  one  of  his 
old  parishes,  and  she  accepted  invitations  to  spend 
the  day  or  to  make  a  week's  visit  after  haying  until 
she  was  entirely  confused  at  the  thought  of  her  en- 
gagements. It  was  very  pleasant ;  but  sometimes, 
when  she  was  tired,  the  future  suggested  itself  for 
her  decision,  and  she  wondered  what  she  had  better 
do  when  the  visits  were  over,  for  there  was  all  the 
rest  of  her  life  to  be  lived,  and  she  ought  to  be  mak- 
ing some  plans. 

ii. 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  withhold  an  account  of  the 
wretchedness  of  poor  Mrs.  Mahala  Parker  when  she 
remembered,  on  the  evening  after  her  arrival  at  her 
sister's,  that  she  had  meant  to  bring  with  her  another 
guest.  Something  happened  to  remind  her  of  their 
conversation  in  the  cars,  and  she  suddenly  looked 
gray  for  a  minute,  while  a  chill  crept  over  her. 
"  Oh  !  my  good  land  o'  compassion ! "  she  groaned. 
'*  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  I  believe  my  mind  's 


MISS  BE  CRTS  PILGRIMAGE.  237 

a-failing  of  me."  And  her  amazed  companions  asked 
what  could  be  the  matter. 

"  I  met  Rebecca  Parsons  in  the  cars,"  said  she, 
"  coming  on  from  the  West.  We  happened  to  sit  in 
the  same  seat ;  but  I  never  should  have  known  her 
if  she  had  n't  called  me  by  name  and  told  me  who 
she  was.  She  said  she  had  been  gone  forty  years. 
I  should  n't  have  said  it  was  more  than  thirty,  if  it 
was  that ;  but  time  does  go  so  fast !  She  did  n't 
seem  certain  about  anybody's  coming  to  meet  her, 
and  I  told  her  I  'd  fetch  her  along  with  me,  and  then 
you  'd  send  her  over  to  the  Annises,  where  she  ex- 
pected to  stop  ;  and  I  come  right  off  without  ever 
even  saying  Good-by  to  her.  I  don't  know  what 
she  will  think.  I  never  felt  so  in  my  life.  I  don't 
remember  to  have  seen  no  other  conveyance  there, 
and  she  must  ha'  been  real  put  to  it  to  know  what  to 
do.  I  got  sort  of  excited,  it 's  so  long  since  I  went 
anywhere  before.  It  must  have  looked  just  as  if  I 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  her.  There  was  something  on 
my  mind  all  the  way  here  ;  but  I  kept  thinking  it 
was  because  I  had  left  something  in  the  cars." 

"  Well,  right  after  breakfast  one  of  the  girls  shall 
take  you  over  to  the  Annises,  Sister  Mahaly,"  said 
Mrs.  Littlefield.  "You  'd  feel  better  to  see  her 
yourself  than  to  send  word.  I  suppose  she  will  be 


238  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

there,  or  she  may  have  stopped  up  to  the  tavern,  and 
they  ought  to  know  it.  And  you  may  as  well  ask 
them  all  to  come  over  and  take  tea  to-morrow  and 
spend  a  good  long  afternoon.  I  sha'n't  have  another 
chance  for  some  time,  on  account  of  haying.  I  was 
calculating  to  ask  our  minister,  any  way  ;  and  when 
I  got  your  letter  I  thought  I  would  wait  until  you 
was  here." 

"  Adaline  sent  to  Boston  by  one  of  our  neighbors, 
who  is  real  tasty,  and  got  me  a  beautiful  cap,  just 
before  I  came  away,"  mentioned  Mrs.  Parker.  "  She 
said  I  'd  be  likely  to  want  it,  and  those  I  had  were  get- 
ting a  little  past ;  but  I  told  her  I  wished  she  had  n't. 
It  will  be  just  what  I  need,  though,  won't  it  ?  Re- 
becca was  dressed  real  plain  ;  but  everything  seemed 
to  be  of  good  quality.  I  dare  say  she  put  on  what 
was  old  and  would  n't  hurt,  she  had  so  far  to  come." 

Miss  Becky  had  been  a  little  angry  at  being  de- 
serted ;  but  she  took  a  grim  satisfaction  in  thinking 
Mrs.  Parker's  mind  was  not  what  it  used  to  be,  and 
when  she  made  her  appearance  in  the  morning,  en- 
tirely penitent  and  armed  with  an  invitation  to  tea, 
she  was  forgiven  in  full.  The  tea-party  was  a  great 
success,  and  Miss  Becky  was  the  centre  of  attraction. 
There  were  so  many  questions  to  be  asked  and  an- 
swered, wherever  she  went ;  the  fates  and  fortunes 


MISS  BECKY'S  PILGRIMAGE.  239 

of  so  many  families  had  to  be  recounted  for  her  sat- 
isfaction ;  and  she  made  herself  very  agreeable  by 
giving  interesting  reminiscences  of  her  own  life,  and 
telling  of  the  strange  customs  of  some  Westerners 
and  the  contrasts  she  noticed  in  the  fashions  of  living 
East  and  West.  She  felt  herself  to  be  a  person  of 
great  interest  and  consequence.  You  may  be  sure 
that  she  wore  her  best  black  silk,  and  that  she  suc- 
ceeded in  leaving  an  impression  on  the  minister's 
mind  of  her  being  well  posted  on  clerical  and  relig- 
ious questions.  She  told  the  Annis  family,  compla- 
cently, as  they  drove  home  together  in  the  two-seated 
wagon,  after  the  tea-party  was  over,  that  she  always 
felt  at  home  with  ministers  and  knew  their  ways  bet- 
ter than  she  did  anybody's. 

Cousin  Sophia  was  pleased  at  being  the  owner  of 
such  an  attractive  and  satisfactory  guest.  "  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  Mr.  Beacham  appear  to  enjoy  him- 
self better,"  she  said.  "  He  is  n't  much  of  a  talker, 
as  a  general  thing ;  but  you  brought  him  out  right 
off.  I  tell  you,  Rebeccy,  you  ought  to  set  your  cap 
for  the  parson.  He  is  well  off.  We  give  him  eight 
hundred  dollars,  and  he  's  got  means  beside.  I  think 
he  's  been  a  widower  long  enough  ;  but  folks  here 
has  got  tired  setting  their  caps  for  him,  'less  it 's  old 
Cynthy  Rush,  and  she  'pears  to  think  that  while 
there  's  life  there  's  hope." 


240  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

"  He  seems  to  be  an  excellent  Christian  man,"  said 
Miss  Becky,  flushing  a  little  ;  but  it  was  too  dark  for 
anybody  to  notice  it. 

"  I  'm  going  to  have  him  to  our  house  to  tea,"  said 
Mrs.  Ann  is,  giving  her  daughter  a  suggestive  poke. 
"  He  always  likes  to  come  in  strawberry  time." 

Annie  Downs  had  been  much  amused  that  evening 
at  the  evident  interest  which  Mr.  Beacham  and  Miss 
Becky  took  in  each  other.  It  was  a  funny,  sedate 
likeness  of  a  mild  flirtation  between  two  young  peo- 
ple. They  were  mindful  of  the  respect  due  to  their 
own  advanced  years  and  the  proprieties  of  a  tea- 
party;  but  they  found  each  other  very  attractive. 
They  were  both  fine-looking.  Mr.  Beacham  would 
have  been  fairly  imposing  in  even  a  gown  and  bands, 
but  in  a  surplice  he  would  have  been  magnificent. 
One  longed  to  see  him  in  a  ruffled  shirt  and  small- 

o 

clothes,  instead  of  his  plain  black  garments  ;  but  his 
solemn  countenance' bore  on  it  the  stamp  of  eccle- 
siastical dignity.  "  Anybody  would  know  he  was  a 
minister,"  said  Miss  Becky,  decidedly,  and  she  had 
had  vast  experience  among  the  Western  clergy. 

The  June  days  went  by  quickly,  and  Miss  Parsons 
enjoyed  her  visit  more  and  more,  and  felt  less  and 
less  inclination  to  go  back  to  her  Devonport  life. 
She  had  not  supposed  that  people  would  be  so  glad 


MISS  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  241 

to  see  her ;  but,  having  once  welcomed  her,  they 
never  were  made  sorry,  for  our  friend  was  really  a 
good  and  pleasant  person  to  know.  The  young  peo- 
ple found  her  full  of  sympathy  and  kind-heartedness, 
and  she  gave  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  wherever  she 
went.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  did  not  think  only 
of  how  her  friends  greeted  her  and  what  they  did  for 
her,  for  she  was  as  anxious  to  help  and  to  give, 
in  her  turn,  and  she  could  be  as  amusing  as  heart 
could  wish.  There  was  an  unfaded  girlishnes*  about 
her  yet,  in  spite  of  the  fallen  snows  of  so  many  win- 
ters. She  was  very  happy  in  Brookfield,  and  there 
was  a  companionship  to  be  had  even  in  the  cypress- 
grown  burying-ground,  which  was  dearer  to  her  than 
she  had  dreamed  it  would  be.  The  people  in  church 
on  Sundays  soon  felt  as  if  she  were  again  their  neigh- 
bor and  friend,  and  Mr.  Beachain  found  himself  look- 
ing often  toward  the  Annis  pew,  as  he  preached ;  and 
he  selected  his  best  sermon  the  next  Sunday  after 
he  met  Miss  Parsons,  and  repeated  it  for  her  benefit, 
and -was  rewarded  by  her  telling  him,  as  he  gravely 
shook  hands  with  her  on  his  way  out  of  church,  that 
it  reminded  her  of  one  of  her  dear  brother's  on  the 
same  text,  but  Mr.  Beacham  had  expanded  the  sub- 
ject much  more  fully.  "  You  know  how  to  make 
things  very  clear,"  Miss  Becky  said,  with  a  sudden 
10 


242  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

brightening  of  her  eyes  and  a  simple  frankness,  that 
he  thought  extremely  desirable.  "  It  is  something  to 
be  most  grateful  for,  if  a  word  we  speak  reaches  and 
helps  another  struggling  soul,"  he  said,  and  shook 
hands  absently  with  a  parishioner  in  the  next  pew. 

"  Did  you  see  poor  Mary  Ann  Dean  at  church,  to- 
day ?"  some  one  asked,  as  they  drove  home  after  meet- 
ing. And  Mrs.  Annis  answered  that  she  doubted  if 
the  poor  soul  ever  got  out  to  church  again.  "  I 
have  n't  told  you  about  her,  have  I,  R'becky  ?  She 
was  a  daughter  of  Susan  Beckett,  who  used  to  be  at 
your  aunt's  a  good  deal ;  but  it  may  have  been  after 
you  went  West.  She  has  had  about  the  hardest  time 
of  anybody  I  know.  Their  house  burnt  down,  and 
they  lost  most  everything  ;  and  four  of  the  family  died 
within  sixteen  months.  Mary  Ann  was  left  all  alone, 
with  one  brother  that  drank  like  a  fish,  and  she  had 
to  earn  what  she  could  and  bear  the  brunt  of  every- 
thing. She  was  a  good  deal  younger  than  the  rest 
of  the  children.  She  has  bee'n  failing  this  good 
while  ;  but  she  would  n't  give  up.  She  's  always 
reminded  me  of  a  flower  in  the  road  that  every  wheel 
goes  over.  There  ain't  a  better  young  woman  any- 
where in  Brookfield.  I  set  everything  by  Mary 
Ann." 

"  I  do  feel  sorry,"  said  Miss  Becky.     "  I  had  it  on 


MIS8  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  243 

my  mind  in  meeting  to  ask  you  if  any  of  Susan's 
folks  were  about  here  ;  and  I  noticed  that  poor,  sick- 
looking  girl.  I  '11  go  to  see  her  the  first  of  the  week, 
if  she  don't  live  too  far  off,  on  her  mother's  account, 
if  nothing  else." 

"  It  is  only  a  little  way,"  said  Annie  Downs. 
"  I  '11  go  with  you  to-morrow  afternoon,  if  you  will 
come  along  to  the  school-house  after  school,  Cousin 
Becky." 

Miss  Becky  was  very  kind  to  this  new  friend,  who 
soon  grew  more  ill  and  quite  dependent  upon  the 
kindness  of  her  neighbors,  and  our  heroine,  having 
no  family  cares,  was  with  her  a  good  deal  for  the 
next  fortnight.  Haying  had  begun,  and  it  was  lucky 
that  so  good  a  nurse  was  for  the  most  of  the  time  at 
leisure,  since  the  other  women  were  all  so  busy,  and, 
indeed,  at  any  time  had  their  hands  full  with  their 
own  work. 

It  happened  that  two  or  three  times  Mr.  Beacham 
came  to  visit  his  sick  parishioner;  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  Miss  Becky  did  not  show  her  usual 
composure  in  the  presence  of  the  clergy,  and  that  she 
began  to  feel  uncomfortably  self-conscious  and  to 
insist  upon  it  to  herself  that  she  took  no  interest  in 
the  man  whatever.  She  openly  said  (feeling  all  the 
time  that  she  might  be  sorry  for  it)  that  she  did  not 


244  COUNTRY  BY- WATS. 

consider  him  gifted  in  prayer;  but  even  this  bold 
treason  did  not  keep  her  heart  from  fluttering  at  the 
mention  of  his  name.  The  Brookfield  people  quickly 
caught  at  the  first  hint,  which  was  given  by  a  suspi- 
cious parishioner,  and  one  Sunday  noon  Miss  Becky 
was  joked  a  little  by  the  people  who  knew  her  best, 
which  was  very  discomposing. 

So  one  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  Annis  family 
were  not  surprised  to  see  the  minister  and  Miss 
Becky  come  walking  up  the  road  together.  She  had 
been  away  for  two  or  three  days  ;  but  had  been  left 
at  Mary  Ann  Dean's  to  spend  an  hour  or  two,  on 
her  way  home,  and  Mrs.  Annis's  first  thought  was 
that  the  sick  woman  had  suddenly  died,  and  that  they 
were  coming  together  to  consult  about  making  some 
arrangements.  But  Annie  Downs  was  quicker  witted. 
"  I  should  n't  wonder  if  Cousin  Becky  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  settle  down  in  Brookfield,"  said  she,  with 
a  little  laugh. 

Mrs.  Annis  hurried  to  the  door.  "  Poor  Mary 
Ann  ain't  gone,  I  hope  ?  "  she  asked,  anxiously  ;  and 
Mr.  Beacham  looked  confused,  and  answered  that 
she  seemed  as  comfortable  as  usual.  "  Miss  Parsons 
and  I  were  speaking  of  some  theological  points  to 
which  her  brother  gave  much  attention,"  he  apolo- 
gized, and  everybody  felt  a  little  awkward,  until 


MISS  BECKTS  PILGRIMAGE.  245 

Mrs.  Annis  bethought  herself  to  take  refuge  in  her 
duty  as  hostess.  "  I  want  you  to  stop  to  tea  with 
us,  now  you  're  here,  Mr.  Beacham,"  she  said,  eagerly. 
"  We  Ve  been  thinking  of  sending  for  you.  I  had 
some  thoughts  of  naming  Thursday.  You  always 
like  our  strawberries,  you  know." 

The  minister  looked  very  pleased.  "  I  do  not  know 
why  I  cannot  accept  your  hospitality,  Mrs.  Annis. 
My  housekeeper  said  she  should  be  absent  to-night, 
though  she  doubtless  made  some  provision  for  my 
supper.  And  on  Thursday  I  have  engaged  to  be 
away." 

It  was  nearly  tea-time  already  ;  at  least,  there  was 
hardly  time  enough  to  make  sure  that  the  feast  would 
be  appropriate  for  the  guest.  Mrs.  Annis  and  Mrs. 
Downs  and  Annie  all  scurried  to  the  kitchen  at  once, 
and  when  Mr.  Daniel  Annis  came  in  from  the  field 
he  was  told  who  was  there,  and  went  at  once  to  array 
himself  in  his  Sunday  clothes. 

"  You  go  in  and  talk  to  him,  Daniel,  and  Annie  or 
1  will  be  in  pretty  quick,"  said  Mrs.  Downs.  And 
her  brother  manfully  tried  to  do  his  duty ;  but  after 
his  first  greeting  and  report  of  the  crops  he  did  not 
know  what  else  to  say.  Miss  Parsons  had  looked 
much  embarrassed  as  he  entered,  and  soon  went  out 
to  the  dining-room,  leaving  the  host  and  his  guest  to 


246  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

entertain  each  other ;  and  Daniel  wished  that  some 
of  the  women  would  come  back.  He  thought  of  the 
unfailing  resource  of  all  farmers,  and  longed  to  ask 
the  minister  to  come  out  and  have  a  look  at  the  hogs ; 
but,  being  a  minister,  he  feared  it  might  not  be  the 
proper  thing. 

Happily,  Mr.  Beacham  himself  suggested  that  they 
should  take  a  walk  down  to  the  bee-hives,  and  pres- 
ently they  fell  into  easy  discourse  together  on  some 
parish  matters.  And  after  a  little  while  Miss  Becky 
reappearedl  and  mentioned  that  some  one  wished  to 
see  Daniel  at  the  barn,  about  pressing  the  hay ;  and 
while  he  hurried  back  to  the  house  our  friend  and 
the  minister  strolled  along  together  slowly. 

It  was  a  pleasant  old  garden,  and  in  the  middle 
path  there  was  a  long,  rickety  arbor,  covered  thick 
with  grape-vines.  The  sun  was  getting  low ;  but, 
for  all  that,  the  shade  was  pleasant,  and  Mr.  Beacham 
stopped  for  a  minute,  but  Miss  Becky  was  uneasy 
and  wished  he  would  go  on. 

"  Since  I  laid  away  my  dear  companion,  now  seven 
years  ago,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made  Miss  Becky's 
heart  thump  dreadfully,  "  I  have  had  no  desire  to 
fill  her  place  in  my  home,  solitary  though  it  has  been  ; 
but  I  find  that  I  am  no  longer  contented  with  my 
situation,  and  that  you  possess  all  the  qualifications 


MISS  BECKY'S  PILGRIMAGE.  247 

to  make  me  happy.  We  are  not  young ;  but  the 
Lord  may  continue  our  lives  for  many  years  yet,  and 
I  believe  that  we  should  enjoy  a  united  home.  You 
already  know  the  responsibilities  and  cares  of  a  min- 
ister's life,  and  it  seems  to  me  unwise  that  you  should 
return  to  the  West  permanently,  though  I  do  not 
doubt  you  have  formed  many  associations  which  are 
dear  to  you  and  which  it  will  be  hard  to  sever.  Per- 
mit me  to  say  that  you  have  already  become  very 
dear  to  me,  and  that  I  can  assure  you  of  a  most  heart- 
felt and  enduring  affection.  I  hope  you  will  take 
the  matter,  as  I  have,  into  serious  and  prayerful  con- 
sideration." 

Miss  Parsons  felt  for  her  handkerchief;  but  she 
mistook  the  way  to  her  pocket,  and  fumbled  at  her 
dress  without  finding  it,  while  the  tears  were  ready 
to  fall  from  her  eyes,  and  Mr.  Beacham  and  the 
grape-leaves  and  a  red  hollyhock  that  had  pushed 
through  the  trellis  were  all  in  a  dazzle  together. 
She  had  somehow  expected  to  have  the  solemn  little 
speech  followed  by  the  benediction ;  but  the  minister 
stood  there  as  if  he  expected  her  to  say  something. 
So  she  put  out  her  left  hand  toward  him,  and  covered 
her  face  with  the  other,  and  the  handkerchief,  which 
was  found,  at  last,  just  in  time.  And  Annie  Downs, 
who  was  in  the  strawberry-bed  not  a  dozen  feet  away, 


248  COUNTRY  BY-WAYS. 

hardly  daring  to  breathe  lest  they  should  notice  her, 
heard  a  resounding  kiss,  and  then  stole  softly  away 
among  the  pear-trees,  and  told  her  mother  she  need 
not  be  worried  any  more  because  supper  would  be 
so  late. 

They  went  on  a  wedding  journey  to  Devonport, 
where  Miss  Becky  was  so  much  older  than  most 
people  in  town  that  her  returning  to  them  a  bride 
caused  great  fun  and  astonishment;  but  everybody 
was  very  glad.  She  seemed  so  happy  herself  and  she 
did  not  look  a  day  over  fifty-five.  She  carried  back 
to  the  East  some  household  goods  that  were  dear 
to  her,  and  she  gave  away  the  rest  most  generously. 

But  she  felt  very  sad  when  she  paid  a  last  visit  to 
her  brother's  grave,  and  as  she  came  away  she  no- 
ticed some  trees  he  had  planted  and  tended  with  great 
care,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  were  taking  a  sad  fare- 
well of  all  her  happy  life  with  him.  She  was  very 
contented  in  Brookfield  and  was  looked  up  to  by  the 
whole  parish,  and  she  made  Mr.  Beacham  an  excel- 
lent wife ;  but  she  thought,  with  all  her  admiration 
for  him,  that,  although  an  uncommon  writer,  he 
never  could  quite  equal  her  brother's  great  sermon 
on  Faith  and  Works.  Dear  Miss  Becky  !  She  often 
thought  that  her  life  had  been  most  wonderfully  or- 
dered. Everything  had  happened  just  right,  and 


MISS  BE  CRTS  PILGRIMAGE.  249 

she  did  not  see  how  it  was  that  all  the  events  of  life, 
other  people's  affairs,  and  things  that  seemed  to 
have  no  connection  with  her,  all  matched  her  needs 
and  fitted  in  at  just  the  right  time.  If  she  had  come 
to  Brookfield  the  year  before  she  was  sure  that  she 
should  have  had  no  temptation  to  stay  there,  though 
she  and  Mr.  Beacham  did  seem  to  have  been  made 
for  each  other.  Mr.  Beacham  would  have  said  that 
it  was  the  unfailing  wisdom  of  Providence  ;  but  she 
wondered  at  it  none  the  less  and  was  very  grateful. 
Perhaps  her  life  would  seem  dull,  and  not  in  the 
least  conspicuous  or  interesting  to  most  people ;  but 
for  the  dullest  life  how  much  machinery  is  put  in 
motion  and  how  much  provision  is  made,  while  to  its 
possible  success  the  whole  world  will  minister  and  be 
laid  under  tribute. 


